"Excuse me," she said, deliberately, "that is hardly an answer to my question."
During the silence that followed, she took up the clasp again, and studied the writing. As she did so she used her right hand only; indeed, during the whole time, her left had been occupied with her tireless fan. I fancied, though I could not be certain, that it was waving slightly faster than before.
"The writing seems to be nonsense. What is this—'Moon end South—deep at point'? I can make no meaning of it. I suppose there is a meaning?"
"Not to my knowledge," said I, and immediately repented, for once more I seemed to catch that gleam in her eyes which had so baffled me when first she saw the Clasp. The curtain rose upon the third act of "Francesca," and we sat in silence, she with the Clasp lying upon her lap, I wondering by what possibility she could know anything about my father's secret. She could not, I determined. The whole history of the Golden Clasp made it impossible. And yet I repented my rashness. It was too late now, however; so, when the act was over I waited for her to speak.
"So this belonged to your father. Tell me, was he at all like you?"
"He was about my height, I should guess," said I, wondering at this new question; "but otherwise quite unlike. He was a fair man, I am dark."
"But your grandfather—was he not dark?"
"I believe so," I answered, "but really—"
"You wonder at my questions, of course. Never mind me; think me a witch, if you like. Do I not look a witch?"
Indeed she did, as she sat there. The diamonds flashed and gleamed, lighting up the awful colour of her skin until she seemed a very "Death-in-Life."