She pouted. "I don't feel at all sure of you now, Mr. Smart," she said, sitting down rather dejectedly in a chair near the fireplace. "I believe you are ready to turn against me. You want to be rid of me. I am a nuisance, a source of trouble to you. You will tell him that I am here—"
I stood over her, trying my best to scowl. "You know better than that. You know I—I am as loyal as—as can be. Hang it all," I burst out impulsively, "do you suppose for a minute that I want to hand you over to that infernal rascal, now that I've come to—that is to say, now that we're such ripping good friends?"
She looked up at me very pathetically at first. Then her expression changed swiftly to one of wonder and the most penetrating inquiry. Slowly a flush crept into her cheeks and her eyes wavered.
"I—I think I can trust you to—to do the right thing by me," she said, descending to a banality in her confusion.
I held out my hand. She laid hers in it rather timidly, almost as if she was afraid of me. "I shall not fail you," said I without the faintest intention to be heroic but immediately conscious of having used an expression so trite that my cheek flamed with humiliation.
For some unaccountable reason she arose hastily from the chair and walked to the window. A similar reason, no doubt, held me rooted rather safely to the spot on which I stood. I have a vague recollection of feeling dizzy and rather short of breath. My heart was acting queerly.
"Why do you suppose he wants to see you?" she asked, after a moment, turning toward me again. She was as calm as a summer breeze. All trace of nervousness had left her.
"I can't even supply a guess."
"You must be very, very tactful," she said uneasily. "I know him so well. He is very cunning."
"I am accustomed to dealing with villains," said I. "They always come to a bad end in my books, and virtue triumphs."