She bit her lip. For a moment her dark eyes were veiled from his by lowered lashes, then she suddenly looked up at him, and he had a glimpse of flashing teeth as she smiled. “Mr. Peltham,” she said, “says he can’t meet you — for you to carry on.”
“But,” Mason observed, “I’m groping in the dark.”
“You seem to be doing very well at it, Mr. Mason,” she said, and Mason realized that something had given her a sudden return of self-confidence. Her manner was archly gay, a jaunty assumption of carefree banter.
Mason studied her, trying to find some reason for the transformation, to learn whether it was due to something he had said, or simply because she had suddenly conceived some new plan which offered such possibilities of ultimate success as to restore her confidence.
Mason said, “I’m in too deep to back out right now. I’m going ahead.”
“Do,” she said. “Mr. Peltham seems to think you’re doing splendidly.”
“Have you talked with him?”
“Well, let’s put it this way: I’ve been in communication with him.”
“Over the telephone?”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to start avoiding questions again, Mr. Mason.”