Her oval, olive face was sad and sweet. The pale cheeks were not touched up with artificial color, and the scarlet lips were, even to his close scrutiny, also devoid of applied art. She wore a smart little gown of black taffeta, with crisp, chic frills of finely plaited white organdie.
Whether this was meant as mourning wear or not, Cray could not determine.
The frock was fashionably short, showing thin silk stockings and black suede ties.
But Miss Mystery seemed wholly unconscious of her clothes, and her great dark eyes were full of wondering inquiry as she looked at the attorney, and then a little diffidently offered a greeting hand.
The little brown paw touched Cray’s with a pathetic, hopeful clasp, and he looked up quickly to find himself looking into a pair of hopeful eyes, that, without a word, expressed confidence and trust.
He shrugged his shoulders a trifle and secretly admonished himself to keep a tight rein on his sympathy.
Then relinquishing the lingering hand, he sat down opposite the chair she had chosen to occupy.
“Miss Austin,” he began, and paused, for the first time in his life uncertain what tack to take.
“Yes,” she said, as the pause grew longer, and her soft, cultured voice helped him not at all.
How could he say to this lovely small person that he suspected her of wrong doing?