“Isn’t it?” She rubbed her cheek against the high collar with a tenderness trying to any masculine onlooker. “It saved my life.”
It was on the tip of Geoffrey’s tongue to ask if he was not entitled to a similar claim on her consideration, but he suppressed it. Was it possible that she did not know that the garments she wore were stolen? Could any sane woman really believe that sable coats fell naturally to the lot of night watchmen? Her manner was candour itself, but how should it not be? What more inevitable than that she should make an effort to deceive a casual stranger? She had the most evident motives for behaving exactly as she did. Just so, however, he had reasoned about McVay, and yet McVay had been sincere. There had been a girl in distress exactly as he had said. It was contrary to all reason, but it was true. Might not the girl be true too? Was it not possible, he asked himself, and answered that it was more than possible, it was the truth. He chose to believe in her, and turned his anger against McVay, who could drag her through such a mire. He felt the tragedy of a high-minded woman tricked out in stolen finery, and remembered with a pang that he himself was hurrying on the moment of disillusion.
“I wonder,” she said, “if I could take some things with me. Is it impossible for me to carry a bag?”
“Yes, but not for me.”
“It would be only this.” She held up a small Russia leather affair legibly marked with Mrs. Inness’ initials.
“I will take it,” said Geoffrey. His faith was sorely tried.
She moved about collecting things and packing, and presently remarked:
“But if Billy is all right, why didn’t he come for me himself?”
“Oh, because—” Geoffrey hesitated an instant, and her fears interpreted the pause.
“He’s hurt. You are keeping it from me. You are deceiving me.”