“I will!” and Manning, for we felt no doubt of his identity now,—spoke firmly and bravely. He did not look at Olive, and it was clear that this was intentional.
Instead, he turned to Zizi, and seemed to address himself to her.
He couldn’t have done better if he wanted helpful sympathy, for the black eyes that gazed at him were soft and tender with something like a maternal sweetness.
This mood of Zizi’s, rarely shown, was one of her chiefest charms, and Manning gratefully accepted it, and let it help him.
“Shall I tell all,—now and here?” he asked, glancing at Pennington Wise.
“Yes,” said the detective, after a moment’s thought. “Yes, if you will.”
“Very well, then.” Manning was entirely composed now, but it was evident he was holding himself together by a strong effort. Also, he carefully refrained from looking in Olive’s direction.
This alarmed me a little, for to my mind, it argued him a guilty man, and, that, in fact, he had declared himself to be.
Norah and I exchanged glances of understanding,—or, rather, of not understanding,—and Manning began his story.
“I think I will begin right here,” he said, in a slow, methodical way, and with the air of one who has a disagreeable duty to perform, but who has no intention of shirking any part of it.