There was a calm about the large sunken eyelids, with their dark lashes blackly defined against the ivory cheek—about the pale forehead, surrounded by a glossy wreath of black plaits—about the arms, crossed upon her breast over sprays of white lilies; and upon the closely-shut, beautiful dead lips was the set, strange smile that seems to express: “Fear not—none can harm me, now.”
For one instant, Roderick swerved. He could not be said to shudder, or to start—he swerved, as if he had made a false step. Then, visibly paler, but perfectly composed, he leant forward, his arms upon the brass rail.
“You—recognize her?” asked Hugh.
Either this young man was the most accomplished and hardened hypocrite—or he was not the villain of the story. He felt puzzled.
“I—do,” said Roderick, straightening himself and looking Hugh full in the face. “But—excuse me—I cannot understand why it should have fallen upon me to identify her. Where are her friends?”
“The only person connected with her whose name we have—is yours, Captain Pym.”
Roderick shrugged his shoulders.
“It is a mystery,” he said. “I knew her brother and her sister. I knew her—also—slightly.”
Evidently he began to feel that this was a verbal duel. He spoke cautiously, choosing his words, and he kept his eyes fixed upon Hugh.
“Slightly?” asked Hugh, doubtfully. “Perhaps you will be so good as to explain?”