“Travers Gladwin! Oh, he did, eh?”
The girl had read more than he imagined the sudden contraction of his features and dilation of his eyes had revealed.
“I want you to tell me the truth––you must!” she said passionately. “Who are you?”
“A man who loves you,” he let go impulsively. The desire to possess her had sprung uppermost in his mind again.
“But are you the man you pretended to be––are you Travers Gladwin?” she insisted, compelled against her convictions to grope for a forlorn hope.
“And if I were not?” he cried, with all the dramatic intensity he could bring to voice. “If instead of being the son of a millionaire, a pampered molly-coddle who never earned a dollar in his life––suppose I were a man who had to fight every inch of the way”–––
He stopped. His alert ear had caught a sound in the hallway. He sped noiselessly to the folding door and forced one back, revealing Officer Murphy.
“Come in,” he said threateningly, and Gladwin came in a little way.
“Where’s that bag?” said the thief, with a glare and a suggestive movement with his hands.
“What bag, sorr?” said Gladwin, feeling that for the moment discretion was the better part of valor.