Free Chiffon Scarf by Mignon Good Eberhart

greedy fingers, took a long, tremulous breath and sat down again as if her knees refused to hold her upright.
    “Yes,” she said, “it’s mine. Thank God—” She caught herself, shot a watchful glance at Eden and said: “That is—I thought I’d lost it.”
    “It’s a key to the plant, isn’t it?” said Eden, folding the jacket. .
    “Yes. That is—” Creda’s little face was hard and intent.
    “How did you know?”
    “Noel thought so—”
    “Noel!”
    “Yes. I didn’t know who lost it. I asked him about it. Shall I pack this bathing suit?”
    “Yes. No. That is, Eden—where did you find this key?”
    “This morning, at the field. Beside the car. You must have dropped it.”
    “Dropped it. Yes. Yes, I suppose I did. Did you tell Noel where you found the key?”
    Eden considered.
    “No. I just told him I thought you’d lost it. He said it was probably Bill’s key. That’s all.”
    “Oh. Oh, I see. Yes, that’s right. It was Bill’s key.”
    It was difficult for her to say “Bill”; she brought it out with a kind of thrust. Yet whatever emotion it was that she repressed, it was unlike grief. She went on quickly:
    “I happened to have it. He—gave it to me.”
    It was unconvincing.
    Eden folded a dress and said nothing. After a curiously uneasy moment Creda said:
    “Listen, Eden; don’t tell anyone I had this key. Will you?”
    “Why on earth should I tell anybody! It doesn’t matter.”
    “I know, but—promise me. Will you, Eden?”
    “I’ll promise anything you want me to; don’t be silly, Creda. Nobody cares about a key. Oh, by the way”—she folded an organdy dinner dress, much ruffled, in tissue paper—”by the way,” she said casually above the soft little rattle of tissue paper, “what do you know about Major Pace? Just who is he?”
    There was another little silence and it was again uneasy. She glanced at Creda over the masses of organdy and tissue paper, and Creda said at last, rather stiffly:
    “I don’t know anything about him. What a queer question!”
    Eden accepted it and put the dress carefully in the bag and reached for the next one.
    “I wonder what country he really does represent?”
    This time Creda replied quickly.
    “I’m sure I don’t know.”
    “Perhaps he doesn’t really represent any country,” ventured Eden. “Perhaps he’s just an ordinary, commercial—well, adventurer.”
    “Adventurer? What do you mean?”
    “Well,” said Eden, “I suppose there are spies; other airplane manufacturing plants have trouble now and then with spies. I don’t know why the Blaine plant should be immune.”
    “Spies!” said Creda on a quick breath. “Really “ She laughed sharply and nervously. “He’s not a spy. He offered to buy the engine. Besides, there’s never been any trouble about spies at the Blaine plant.”
    “I suppose you’re right.” Eden closed the bag and sat back on her heels to look full at Creda and risked another question which she tried to make sound idle and casual. “Did you ever see Major Pace anywhere before?”
    Creda blinked slowly; Eden was sure that she held her breath for an instant or two because the thin line of smoke coming from her pretty little nostrils stopped for a second or two and then went on. And then Creda opened her brown eyes wide and looked straight back at Eden.
    “Never,” she said flatly.
    Yet there was no proof, thought Eden, returning to her room an hour or so later, that it was a lie.
    She’d finished Creda’s packing; when she left, Creda closed the door promptly again behind her. And as promptly relocked it. It was queer to stand there in that broad, well-lighted hall and hear the swift smooth click of the bolt.
    She wondered why Creda was afraid. And more specifically, what there was to be afraid of.
    It was already late in the afternoon when she finished Creda’s packing. The sun went down, still clear; at eight o’clock, after a quick dinner, they departed (bags following in another