"And now tell me all about—Mr. Pless. How is he looking? Does he appear to be unhappy?" There was a curious note in her voice, as of anxiety or eagerness, it was hard to tell which. In any case, I found myself inwardly resenting her interest in the sneering Hungarian. (I had discovered that he was not an Austrian.) There was a queer sinking sensation in the region of my heart, and a slight chill. Could it be possible that she—But no! It was preposterous!
"He appears to be somewhat sentimental and preoccupied. He gazes at the moon and bites his nails."
"I—I wish I could have a peep at him some time without being—"
"For heaven's sake, don't even consider such a thing," I cried in alarm.
"Just a little peek, Mr. Smart," she pleaded.
"No!" said I firmly.
"Very well," she said resignedly, fixing me with hurt eyes. "I'm sorry to be such a bother to you."
"I believe you'll go back to him, after all," I said angrily. "Women are all alike. They—"
"Just because I want to see how unhappy he is, and enjoy myself a little, you say horrid things to me," she cried, almost pathetically. "You treat me very badly."
"There is a great deal at stake," said I. "The peril is—well, it's enormous. I am having the devil's own time heading off a scheme they've got for exploring the entire castle. Your hus—your ex-husband says he knows of a secret door opening into this part of the—"