Her white face flushed.
“I would rather not.” Then, at once perceiving that he noted this fact against her, she added: “My only reason is that I was in the house of a friend, and I don’t want her to be disturbed by your making inquiries of her about—about—me.”
The man smiled dryly.
“I’m afraid, Miss, it’s too late to trouble ourselves about that. As I want really to save you all the trouble and annoyance I can, perhaps you’ll let me suggest where you were. Wasn’t it at Colonel Bostal’s, Miss, at the house they call ‘Shingle End?’”
“Yes. But she doesn’t know anything about this; I didn’t tell her why I came.”
“All right, Miss. Don’t you worry yourself about that. I shan’t put her to much trouble, I can promise you that. At this stage of the business it’s only asking questions. But, of course, you understand that we have to make sure we get truthful answers.”
Nell looked more anxious than ever, but she made no further objection.
“Do you want to ask me anything more?” she said, quietly.
“Nothing more at present, Miss. And I’m much obliged to you for the few minutes’ talk you’ve given me.”
He did not hide—perhaps he could not—the fact that his spirits had risen considerably. Not only was there the mark of the burn on her hand, but there were a dozen signs—in her lightness of foot, her height, her slenderness of figure, the softness of her hand, her hesitation in answering him, by which he began to feel absolutely sure that he was at last on the right tack. Therefore he had to persuade her that he was on the wrong one.