“There is a sample of her hair, sir,” said he, taking out a thin strand of brilliant hair and showing it to the gentleman before him. “Bright you see, and golden as that of the unfortunate creature you talked with the other night.”
Mr. Blake stooped forward and lifted it with a hand that visibly trembled. “Where did you get this?” asked he at last, clenching it to his breast with sudden passion.
“From out of the comb which the girl had been using the night before.”
The imperious man flung it hastily from him.
“We waste our time,” said he, looking Mr. Gryce intently in the face. “All that you have said does not account for your presence here nor the tone you have used while addressing me. What are you keeping back? I am not a man to be trifled with.”
Mr. Gryce rose to his feet. “You are right,” said he, and he gave a short glance in my direction. “All that I have said would not perhaps justify me in this intrusion, if—” he looked again towards me. “Do you wish me to continue?” he asked.
Mr. Blake’s intent look deepened. “I see no reason why you should not utter the whole,” said he. “A good story loses nothing by being told to the end. You wish to say something about my journey to Schoenmaker’s house, I suppose.”
Mr. Gryce gravely shook his head.
“What, you can let such a mystery as that go without a word?”
“I am not here to discuss mysteries that have no connection with the sewing-girl in whose cause I am interested.”