"I thought I'd come back at about nine o'clock," he continued. "It is nearly eight now."
She, thinking that he had his own journey in mind, remarked casually:
"You'd best be here well before nine. The train leaves at nine-twenty, and father walks very slowly."
"I won't be late," he said. "Best give me the key of the back door. I'll let myself in that way."
"No occasion to do that," she retorted. "The front door will be open. You can come in that way like everybody else."
"It's just a fancy," he said quietly; "there might be a lot of people about just then. I don't want to come through here. I thought I'd just slip in the back way as I often do. So give me the key, Klara, will you?"
"How can I give you the key of the back door?" she said, equally quietly; "you know father always carries it in his coat pocket."
"But there is a second key," he remarked, "which hangs on a nail by your father's bedside in the next room. Give me that one, Klara."
"I shan't," she retorted. "I never heard such nonsense! As if I could allow you to use the private door of this house just as it suits your fancy. If you want to come in to-night and say good-bye, you must come in by the front door."
"It's just a whim of mine, Klara," urged Leopold, now still speaking quietly—almost under his breath—but there was an ominous tremor in his voice and sudden sharp gleams in his eyes which the girl had already noted and which caused the blood to rush back to her heart, leaving her cheeks pale and her lips trembling.