Marise was quite sharp enough to guess what he meant, but—stepping out into the azalea-filled entrance hall, she passed the open door of the beautiful white bedroom. Beyond it was another door. She opened this, and touching an electric switch, flooded a room with light.
Here, too, was a bedroom, smaller, less elaborate, more suited to the occupation of a man than the other. Instead of the carved white wood and gilded cane of the room next door, the furniture was mahogany, of the Queen Anne period; and the carpet, instead of pale Aubusson, was the colour of wallflowers. There were some plain ebony brushes and toilet things on the dressing-table, and underneath the table were boot-trees. Evidently Garth had had his belongings brought over from the Belmore!
A glance sufficed Marise. She went slowly back to the salon where Garth stood staring down on the display of jewellery on the table.
"Well?" He looked up with something defiant and oddly sullen about his face. "You understand my 'plan'?"
"Yes," said Marise. "I understand. But——"
"But what? Didn't you try the door between that other room and your own, and satisfy yourself that it's locked with the key on your side?"
"I didn't try it," the girl answered, "because—I was somehow sure it would be like that."
"Why were you sure?"
"I don't know, exactly. I was."
"Your sureness was the result of trust in me, as a decent man in spite of the fact that you think I'm not a gentleman?"