“Mr. Smith!”
But it was no longer fright that was upon her. Something was so daringly appropriate in his appearance, so grotesque on the part of the picturesque master of Nannabijou camps that she had to smile in spite of herself. She had never seen him thus garbed before; quite debonaire and at ease in a dark, tailored suit and the habiliments of a man of fashion—a handsome, compelling type, faultlessly groomed from his close-cropped, crisp black hair and clean-shaven face to the tips of his fine black shoes. Even his flicker of a smile, which usually had something grim and sinister in it, now radiated goodwill in its becoming elegance. Frank admiration shone in the lustre of his great black eyes.
He was bowing graciously, hat in hand. “I heard you playing,” he said, “and I could not resist the temptation of looking in a moment.”
She stood to one side holding the door for him. “Then you invited yourself over; I suppose I must let you come in.”
She knew it was not the proper thing at this hour, but then Josephine Stone was an unusual girl who had a ready confidence in herself. What she meant to do was to demand of him why she was being held a prisoner here—why she had been forcibly carried off from Amethyst Island by his band of Indians.
He accompanied her to the library. There she turned upon him, her whole demeanour intensely frigid. “Now then,” she demanded, “I want you to tell me what all this means! Why have I been brought to this place against my will by your gang of cut-throats?”
She had meant to be acid, but there was that in his bantering smile that disarmed her, made her impotent to find the words that would humiliate him.
“No—not to-night,” he declined. “It would take too long. To-morrow I will come to explain everything to you; then you may condemn me, excoriate me at your will. For these few rare moments to-night let us—just be friends.”
“You choose rather unconventional hours for your friendly calls, Mr. Smith.”
He laughed outright at the scornful thrust, a ringing, boyish laugh, totally unlike the sterner man she had known. “Perhaps you are right,” he conceded, “but beggars can’t be choosers, you know. I came in the first place because of the storm. I thought you might be nervous.”