“How does any one get cold?” she said, trying to smile; “perhaps sitting in a draught—perhaps by means of a germ. It is almost well now.”
“Perhaps by walking in the snow, and getting one’s feet wet,” Mr. Adams suggested, and the girl turned frightened eyes on him.
“Don’t,” she breathed; “Mr. Adams, don’t!” Her voice was piteous her eyes implored him to stop torturing her.
“Why, what’s the harm in my saying that?” he went on, inexorably. “You wouldn’t go anywhere that you wouldn’t want known—would you—Miss Mystery?”
He spoke the last two words in a meaning way, and the great dark eyes faced him with the look of a stag at bay.
Then again, by a desperate effort the girl recovered herself, and said, coldly,
“Please speak plainly, Mr. Adams. Is there a special meaning in your words?”
“There is, Miss Austin. Perhaps I have no right to ask you why—but I do ask you if you went over to Doctor Waring’s house, late in the evening—night before last?”
“Sunday night, do you mean?”
Miss Mystery controlled her voice, but her hands were clenched and her foot tapped the floor in her stifled excitement.