I had seen what he was reading:
It was a copy of "Our Rival the Rascal," undoubtedly the one Eggert had missed just before we left St. Thomas.
I said nothing, but I thought a great deal. A man who would steal one thing would steal another. If Wesson had carried off that book from the dining room of my host Eggert—
A mile from the hotel I decided to convey to my companion's mind the suspicions that filled my own.
"You remember that book I had one evening at Eggert's—the book you did not wish to look at," I began.
"That horrible thing!" she exclaimed, with a shiver, nodding an affirmative.
"Just before we left Eggert's, you know, he missed the volume. Nobody had been in the house except you and me, and Wesson. Eggert knew me too well to suspect that I would be guilty of such a theft, and yet he was puzzled. Why, Marjorie, what is the matter with you?"
My last expression was called forth by a strange look on the face of my companion. She fell against me as if too weak to sit up, and yet her eyes were open and not devoid of intelligence.
"My darling!" I cried. "You are ill. Let us return at once."
"No," she said, in a whisper. "It is only temporary. But please say nothing more about the book. If anybody took it—ugh!—it must have been by accident."