"I did n't come here to listen to nice things," she said, smiling into my eyes; "I 'm awfully serious."
And, in very truth, she straightway grew grave. She drew a long breath, and sat suddenly more upright, questioning me with a look. Such fine, honest eyes!
Her first spoken interrogation was direct enough, in all conscience; while I was expecting some such inquisition, I was by no means prepared with an immediate answer.
"I want to know, Mr. Swift,—is it going to appear that Royal Maillot murdered his uncle?"
She spoke very quietly, but, too, very earnestly. Murder is an ugly word; I marvelled that she did not shrink from it.
"Why are you so anxious to know, Miss Cooper?" I temporized—"out of friendship for Mr. Maillot?"
"No," frankly meeting my intent look, "though that would be a sufficient reason." She paused a moment, biting her under lip in the intensity of her musing. Then,—
"Mr. Swift, I 'm going to be perfectly candid with you; I 'm going to lay bare my mind—and my feelings. I pray that you will do the same by me. Am I presuming too much?"
Lay bare my feelings—great heavens! She would have thought me crazy. In a sense, Torquemada himself could scarcely have made me more uncomfortable; but I would not have had that delightful tête-à-tête broken in upon for anything in the world.
"I realized this morning," she proceeded, after I had clumsily begged her to, "that Royal is in a desperate plight, though why or how he came to be I can't understand.