"It's quite unpleasant enough," continued Moya, with spirit, "without your making it worse. The police in possession, and a runaway convict goodness knows where!"
"I agree," said Theodore. "It is unpleasant. I wonder where the beggar can be?"
"It's no use asking me," said Moya; for the note of interrogation had been in his voice.
"You didn't see any suspicious-looking loafers, I suppose? I mean this afternoon."
"How could I? I was with Pelham all the time."
She would never marry him, never! That was no reason why she should give him away. She would never marry a man with discreditable secrets which she might not share, not because they were discreditable, but for the other reason. Yet she must be a humbug for his sake! Moya felt a well-known eye upon her, felt her face bathed in fire; luckily her explanation itself might account for that, and she had the wit to see this in time.
"I mean," she stammered, "one was on the verandah all the afternoon. Nobody could have come without our seeing them."
"I don't know about that. Love is blind!"
His tone carried relief to Moya. The irony was characteristic, normal. It struck her as incompatible with any strong suspicion. But the ground was dangerous all the same.
"If we are made uncomfortable," said Moya, shifting it, "what must it be for Pelham! It's on his account I feel so miserable."