“Jos!” repeated Pauline, astounded at this familiarity.
“I said ‘Jos,’” the man insisted firmly. “What do you take me for?”
“Naturally I take you for a burglar. What else should you be?”
“Now, do I look like a burglar?” Mr. Jetsam asked severely. “Examine me, and tell me whether I look like a burglar.”
“Whatever you are,” said Pauline, in a tone of decision, “I cannot remain talking to you like this. I am in charge of an invalid here, and you must go.”
The man gazed at her fixedly. She thought his eyes were very sad eyes, and yet dignified, too. They reminded her of the eyes of Mrs. Ilam. And presently, when they grew moist, they reminded her even more of the eyes of Mrs. Ilam.
“Miss Dartmouth,” said the man, “I can easily prove to you that I am not a burglar.”
“Then you know me?”
“I know of you. I know your name. I know you by sight. I know that you and your sister have come into this stricken and fatal house from sheer goodness of heart!’
“Do not talk like that,” said Pauline, whom any praise, save of her personal appearance, made extremely uncomfortable. She endeavoured to make her voice cold, forbidding, and accusatory, but she could not. The eyes of the grey-haired man seemed to hypnotize her, to rob her of initiative, and of the power to decide things for herself.