“I have not the information to give,” she answered with dignity.—“I should certainly not give it, if I had. ... My one fear is that Mr Lawless will hear of this affair and return.”
“I could wish I shared your belief,” he replied. “But I fancy you may ease your mind on that score... And there is less danger in this than you imagine... the dog that bites is chained.”
He eyed her narrowly as he referred thus to Van Bleit’s arrest; but he could make nothing of the calm, unchanging face, the quiet eyes that looked steadily back into his.
“You hate that man,” she said slowly. “You will—hang him, if you can.”
He sat forward and peered at her queerly from under his bent brows. He had half expected when he went there that evening that she would make an appeal to his clemency on behalf of the man against whom he would appear as principal witness. That she did not, spoke well for her pride and self-control. Such courage and restraint moved him to admiration. She hid her feelings magnificently, he decided, ignorant of how little she had to conceal.
“You think so,” he said, rising, and standing, hat in hand, in front of her, preparatory to taking his leave after his fruitless errand. “I should have thought you might have perceived that until I have got possession of the letters I have nothing to gain by his death. Denzil has the packet in his keeping, I believe. If I can get hold of it before the case comes on, Van Bleit shall account for the life he has taken.”
“And that is your reason for coming to me for the address?” she observed.
“That,” he answered bluntly, “is my reason. I want Grit Lawless for the job.”