‘Exactly,’ she said; ‘a very proper question. What has it to do with you? Listen, Mr. Redgrave. I have the most serious reasons for asking you to tell me what passed between yourself and my father on Saturday night.’
A look of feminine appeal passed swiftly across her features. Fleeting as it was, it sufficed to conquer Richard. A minute ago he had meant to dominate her. Now he was dominated.
‘I will tell you,’ he said simply, and told her—told her everthing without any reservation.
‘Then my father did not accuse you of being a professional spy?’ she demanded when Richard had finished.
‘No,’ said Richard, somewhat abashed.
‘He did not accuse you of having entered our house under entirely false pretences?’
‘No,’ said Richard, still more abashed.
There was a silence.
‘I wonder,’ she said calmly, glancing out of the window, ‘I wonder why he did not.’
She made the remark as though she were speculating privately upon a curious but not very important point.