And yet again, if she could do it, perhaps also she could talk of it without emotion. Once more there was fear in his eyes as he watched her, and her own were troubled and doubtful.
“Why do you have all that hair on your face?” she asked.
“Well, why shouldn't I?” he retorted. “It saves trouble.”
“Does it?” she said. “Do you know what it looks like—like a disguise?”
“A disguise?” he repeated. “Why should I want a disguise?”
“Do you think I'm quite a fool because I'm a woman?” she asked impatiently. “Do you suppose I couldn't see very well when you came that night that you were not an ordinary burglar? You had some reason of your own for breaking into this house. What was it?”
“I'll tell you,” he answered, “if you'll tell me truly what was in that packing-case?”
“Oh, now I understand,” she cried excitedly. “It was to find that out you came—and then Mr. Dawson made you help us get it away. That was splendid.”
He did not speak, for once more a kind of horror held him dumb, as it seemed to him that she really—knew.
She saw the mingled horror and bewilderment in his eyes, and she laughed lightly as though that amused her.