Although his tone was pompous, the eyes he fixed on her outraged expression were urgent, imploring.
Yet at the moment she did not look much as though she had dropped the note as summons No. 2. Twice her lips opened in angry hesitation. But her aunt interrupted before she actually spoke.
“I was just about to send Jasper up for you, my dear,” she said. “Mind your nerves, now. This is an operative who has come over from The Arsenal to solve our mystery. Mr. Pope, Miss Lauderdale.”
“Pape, you mean,” Jane corrected, then bit her lip.
“Of course, I mean Pape. I am so bad at names, Mr. Pape. Here I’ve been calling you Pope. But, Jane dear, how could you know?”
The ensuing slight pause was shattered by the soundless insistence of a pair of gray eyes addressing a pair of tropic blue: “Play my game. It’s a good game. Why not—why not play my game?”
“Jasper told me.”
Her compliance was brief and cold—but still compliance. With his wide smile Pape thanked and thanked her, triumphed over her, caressed her. Jane refused to smile back. But she did blush—slowly, deliciously, revealingly blushed. At that moment she looked, after all, as though she had meant to drop the note. He wanted to accuse her of it and be sure.
But there was Mrs. Sturgis to be considered. Readjusting his expression into lines professional, he returned to the case.
“Suppose, madame, we take a look at that safe.”