Lockwood’s was written plain on his face, and his eyes, usually so calm and cold, were lighted with the intensity of his passion.
This Anita read, and her own response was quick and involuntary.
Perhaps it was a rebound from the awful proposals of Maurice Trask; perhaps it was a heart finding its mate—perhaps, remembering Miss Mystery’s ways, it was mere coquetry, but the glances were exchanged and they knew.
Anita went on to her room, and throwing herself into a chair, sat long in thought.
“What shall I do?” she asked herself over and over again. “What can I do? If only I hadn’t taken the money—and the pin. Why did I do it? And he said Truesdell! How did he know? My eyebrows, I suppose. That awful man! And he’ll tell—oh, yes, he’ll surely tell—and that will poison Gordon’s mind against me—oh, was anybody ever in such trouble as I?”
A tap at her door announced the maid with a note.
Alone again, Anita read it. It was from Lockwood and begged an interview.
“Please let me see you alone,” it said; “I don’t know how best to manage it. Will you go for a walk with me now? There’s time for a short stroll before dark.”
Hurriedly Anita flung on hat and coat, and opened her door.
Lockwood was on the stair.