And as the door closed behind him something like a cold ghostly hand seemed to touch the back of her neck, sending a clammy tingle over her scalp and an icy numbness sinking down into the pit of her stomach.
Now that she knew he had nothing to do with the Saint, she wondered if the Saint knew anything about him — if it were possible that the Saint might have noticed him at some time. It meant, at least, that the story of the Saint's arrest was probably untrue, mere bait for the trap into which she had walked so blindly. But how soon would the Saint find out, and, even then, what could he do? Such a little time could make so much difference… And on the upturned dial of her wrist watch, almost under her eyes, three impersonal hands traced the crawling of time into eternity.
She watched their remorseless movements with a dull apathy of fascination, and saw the plodding minutes lengthen into an hour. She had no idea what Gugliemi could be doing; it did not seem to be useful to wonder. Probably he was drinking… One hour became two. Something seemed to snap in her brain and make her insensible to the passage of time. What would the Saint be doing?. She was getting cramp and her nose was tickling…
And then footsteps sounded outside, and the handle of the door turned with a rattle that made her heart leap into her mouth and flop back into a furious hammering. A crazy hope that it might even be the Saint himself swept through her head — she had unconsciously attained to such a faith in the Saint, had fallen so deeply under his spell, without knowing it at the time, that she could have believed him capable of any miracle… But the sound heralded only the return of the dapper Gugliemi, now lightened of his hat and coat.
He came into the room and locked the door behind him, and the girl raised her head.
"You've been a long time with your friend," she remarked.
"Yes." He smiled. "He was a little difficult. But I have sent him away now, and he will not come back for two hours. That will give me plenty of time. I hope you are becoming interested."
"Not enough to raise my temperature. And I didn't invite you to sit down. Even if you are disguised as a gentleman—"
"Mees Trelawney—"
"Or perhaps you aren't disguised as a gentleman. I admit the disguise wasn't very successful, but I thought that was what it was meant to be."