“And has the candle been burning in that candlestick for all these eight months?” asked the young man, rashly.
His uncle threw at him a malevolent look, which he felt that his impudence deserved.
“No,” said the old man, shortly, “I was in here myself a few minutes ago.”
Bayre did not believe him. Since his statement that the crumpled finery and women’s trifles had been lying there for months was evidently not true, what confidence could be put in his other assertions? Besides, there was, so the young man felt, something not exactly definable about the disposition of the various things lying about which suggested the hand of a woman rather than the heavier, more careless touch of a man.
And by a sudden inspiration he stepped forward to the chair by the dressing-table and laid his hand upon the brocaded skirt.
It was quite warm.
Bayre turned to his uncle with a significant look and the old man frowned slightly and immediately averted his eyes sullenly.
“Are you not satisfied now?” he asked shortly.
Bayre glanced round the room. There was a door nearly opposite the one by which they had entered. The old man crossed the room testily and threw it open. It was not locked.
“If you are not satisfied yet, you shall be,” said he. “Come this way.”