The clasp of the hand can mean a great deal, even when it is not intended to mean anything especially. Miss Trelawny’s hand somehow became lost in my own. It was not that it was a small hand; it was fine and flexible, with long delicate fingers—a rare and beautiful hand; it was the unconscious self-surrender. And though at the moment I could not dwell on the cause of the thrill which swept me, it came back to me later.
She turned and said to the police superintendent:
“This is Mr. Malcolm Ross.” The police officer saluted as he answered:
“I know Mr. Malcolm Ross, miss. Perhaps he will remember I had the honour of working with him in the Brixton Coining case.” I had not at first glance noticed who it was, my whole attention having been taken with Miss Trelawny.
“Of course, Superintendent Dolan, I remember very well!” I said as we shook hands. I could not but note that the acquaintanceship seemed a relief to Miss Trelawny. There was a certain vague uneasiness in her manner which took my attention; instinctively I felt that it would be less embarrassing for her to speak with me alone. So I said to the Superintendent:
“Perhaps it will be better if Miss Trelawny will see me alone for a few minutes. You, of course, have already heard all she knows; and I shall understand better how things are if I may ask some questions. I will then talk the matter over with you if I may.”
“I shall be glad to be of what service I can, sir,” he answered heartily.
Following Miss Trelawny, I moved over to a dainty room which opened from the hall and looked out on the garden at the back of the house. When we had entered and I had closed the door she said:
“I will thank you later for your goodness in coming to me in my trouble; but at present you can best help me when you know the facts.”
“Go on,” I said. “Tell me all you know and spare no detail, however trivial it may at the present time seem to be.” She went on at once: