“Stop one moment,” he exclaimed. “Miss Cayley.”
She obeyed, turning quickly to face him. They were both very pale, and both were under the influence of strong excitement. But between them there hung a thick cloud of doubt and dread that neither could penetrate.
All at once Dunn, unable to control himself longer, burst out with that question which for so long had hovered on his lips.
“Do you know,” he said, “do you know what you took away with you in the car that night I came here?”
“The packing-case, you meant,” she asked. “Of course I do; I helped to get it ready—what's the matter?”
“Nothing,” he muttered, though indeed he had staggered as beneath some sudden and violent blow. “Oh—did you?” he said, with an effort.
“Certainly,” she answered. “Now I've answered your question, will you answer me one? Why did you tell us your name was Charley Wright?”
“I knew a man of that name once,” he answered. “He's dead now.”
“I thought perhaps,” she said slowly and quite calmly, “that it was because you had seen the name written on a photograph in my room.”
“No, it wasn't that,” he answered gravely, and his doubts that for a moment had seemed so terribly confirmed, now came back again, for though she had said that she knew of the contents of the packing-case, yet, if that were really so, how was it conceivable that she should speak of such a thing so calmly?