deeper color in her cheek and, at the same time, appeared to puzzle her.
"Who was killed?" she asked.
"You mean you want their names?" returned Pete. "Well, the man on Monday was Frederic Selby; yesterday, it was Billy Kent."
"Oh!" she said and looked from Pete to me for more explanation, I thought. When I failed to extend it, she gazed at Pete again. He all the time was filling his eyes with her.
I wondered how he could hold to his accusation of her. I could not hold to it at all. She was scarcely a wing's length away from us, leaning forward a bit in the cockpit of her blue monoplane wondering about us, puzzled by us and concerned, if I could judge her fairly.
I realized that, probably, I could not; she was so lovely looking. She had clear, beautiful features, definite but gentle, too. Her cheeks just now were flushed from flying and also from the fling of Pete's imputation; but naturally she must have clear, lovely color. She had a flawless skin and large grey eyes
