He came over to the typewriter.
“Mr. Fentolin has not sent me,” he said slowly. “I am here on my own account. I dare say you will think that I am a lunatic to come to you like this. Nevertheless, please listen to me.”
Her fingers left the keys. She laid her hands upon the table in front of her. He drew a little nearer. She covered over the sheets of paper with which she was surrounded with a pad of blotting-paper. He pointed suddenly to them.
“Why do you do that?” he demanded. “What is there in your work that you are afraid I might see?”
She answered him without hesitation.
“These are private papers of Mr. Fentolin’s. No one has any business to see them. No one has any business to enter this room. Why are you here?”
“I came to the Hall to find Miss Fentolin,” he replied. “I heard the click of your typewriter. I came to you, I suppose I should say, on impulse.”
Her eyes rested upon his, filled with a cold and questioning light.
“There’s an impression up in London,” Hamel went on, “that Mr. Fentolin has been interfering by means of his wireless in affairs which don’t concern him, and giving away valuable information. This man Dunster’s disappearance is as yet unexplained. I feel myself justified in making certain investigations, and among the first of them I should like you to tell me exactly the nature of the work for which Mr. Fentolin finds a secretary necessary?”
She glanced towards the bell. He moved to the edge of the table as though to intercept her.