He paused; and I remaining silent, he went on again:
"I hope you will not consider it rude if I say that I think you did know it was the child I was in search of."
"And why?" I asked, still with a mere helpless idea of gaining time.
"Because of your manner and your course of action the other day in the parlor of the Waldorf. I saw at once that, for some reason or another, you were disturbed at my presence there. When the girl spoke and thus attracted my attention, you were distressed; and while I was in the act of addressing her you seized her by the hand and fled from the hotel." (An irrepressible smile came over his face at the recollection.) "You left in such haste that you forgot the letter you had been writing. However, I posted that for you. And you went along Thirty-third Street, I should be afraid to say at what rate of speed. Did you suppose I was going to pursue you and forcibly wrest away the child?"
I could not help laughing in sympathy at the drollery which shone out through the anxiety of his face, like sunshine from a cloud.
"Well, not exactly," I observed; "but, truth to tell, I had no desire to hold any conversation with you just then. And, besides, I was in a hurry."
"Oh, you were in a hurry—there was no possible doubt about that!" he assented, still laughing.
"Will you not sit down?" I inquired. "You look so very unsociable standing, and the night is cold enough to make this fire agreeable."
He took the chair I indicated, but he did not turn from the subject.
"May I ask," he resumed, "if the child whom I saw on that occasion is here with you?"