“Do I need to?”
“Perhaps not. I took them from the envelope which you saw at Arima’s. But here they are. I did not look at them, of course.”
He drew the parchments from within his coat and placed them in her hand.
While she examined them, he looked straight ahead, that he might not see. He could hear them crackle as she unfolded them—could hear her sigh of content.
And then something occurred that disquieted him to a degree which seemed unwarranted. The chauffeur suddenly turned around and glanced swiftly through his goggles at the girl and the papers. The action was, perhaps, natural; but there was an assured expectancy in the way he turned—Orme did not like it. Moreover, there was something alarmingly familiar in the manner of the movement.
Somewhere Orme had seen a man move his body like that. But before his suspicions could take form, the chauffeur had turned again.
The girl handed the papers back to Orme. “These are the right papers,” she said. “Oh, my dear, if you only knew how much they mean.”
He held them for a moment in his hand. Then, after returning them to his pocket with as little noise as possible, he caught the girl’s eye and, with a significant glance toward the chauffeur, said in a distinct voice:
“I will slip them under the seat cushion. They will be safer there.”
Did the chauffeur lean farther back, as if to hear better? or was the slight movement a false record by Orme’s imagination?