‘Miss Craig!’ he exclaimed, with an air of being affronted.
I read in a famous book the other day,’ she went on, ‘these words: “A murderer is less loathsome to us than a spy. The murderer may have acted on a sudden mad impulse; he may be penitent and amend; but a spy is always a spy, night and day, in bed, at table, as he walks abroad; his vileness pervades every moment of his life.”’
‘Do you mean to insinuate,’ said Richard, forced to defend himself, ‘that I am a professional spy?’
‘I not only mean to insinuate it, I mean to assert it,’ she announced loftily, and then continued more quickly: ‘Mr. Redgrave, why did you come to spy on us? For two whole days I trusted you, and I liked you. But that night, as soon as I saw you behind me in the shed, the truth burst upon me. It was that, more than anything else, that caused me to faint. Why did you do it, Mr. Redgrave? My father liked you; I—I—I——’ She stopped for a moment. ‘Surely a man of your talents could have found a profession more honourable than that of a spy?’
She looked at him, less angry than reproachful.
‘I am a private detective,’ said Richard sullenly, ‘not a spy. My business is perfectly respectable.’
‘Why trouble to play with words?’ she exclaimed impatiently. ‘We took you for a gentleman. In our simplicity we took you for a gentleman.’
‘Which I trust I am,’ said Richard.
‘Prove it!’ she cried.
‘I will prove it in any manner you choose.’