“If you’d only pretended,” she whispered chidingly.
“Can you walk?” demanded the young man. “As far as a taxi?”
“But—” she began, and, raising her head, looked about her. The man behind the counter was writing in a book, the shop was empty. “The—the detective?” she asked.
He didn’t even answer; but, helping her to rise, and holding her very firmly by the arm, led her out into the street. No one molested them.
“But—Geordie!” she said. “Is it—postponed?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, curtly. “I’ve arranged the thing, anyhow, so that there’ll be no trouble for you. But if you wanted that watch—why didn’t you tell me? I’d have done anything, rather than have this happen.”
“George!” cried Miss Cigale. “Is it possible? No; it can’t be! You can’t think that I—” She stopped short, looking into his stern face, and with an expression on her own that somehow troubled him.
Out here, in the bright sun, she seemed so different. It was hard to think of her as a muddle-headed, desperate creature, trying, very clumsily, to get possession of a watch that didn’t belong to her. No; there was something about her that was—rather impressive. She didn’t look ridiculous now, or pathetic.
“I see!” she said. “You thought I wanted the thing for myself. Well, that was quite a natural thing to think, George.” She spoke without the slightest trace of rancor, simply admitting that it was natural—to some human beings—to think as he did, and she could not blame him.
“Well!” said he, surprised. “You see, when I couldn’t find the ticket, I telephoned to the pawnbroker, and to the police. I thought it had been stolen, and I said that if any one brought it in, to let me know.”