Barth turned scarlet; but he valiantly sought to explain.
“But I only came in here, because I was looking for you.”
From a man of Barth’s previous habits of speech, this was rather too direct. In her turn, Nancy became scarlet.
“What did you wish, Mr. Barth?”
“Oh, just to—to talk to you. It is a beastly day, you know; and I thought—I fancied—”
Nancy cut in remorselessly. Instead of recognizing Barth’s imitation of the American manner, she came to the swift conclusion that his vagueness was due to temporary dementia.
“I am sorry, Mr. Barth; but I am very busy with Mr. Brock. Don’t let us drive you away, though. We can go to the office.”
“But don’t do that. Stay here. That’s what I came for. I fancied you would like to have a little more talk about Sainte Anne.”
Nancy felt Brock’s keen gray eyes fixed upon her, felt the world of merriment in their depths. She reflected swiftly. During the past twenty hours, there had been scant chance that Barth should have discovered her identity. His suggestion was doubtless only the random result of chance. Nevertheless, with Brock’s eyes upon her, she was unable to parry the suggestion with her wonted ease.
“Why should I care to talk about Sainte Anne?” she asked coldly.