Those were the words, uttered in a clear, sweet, perfectly confident voice, as of one who never asked for favours, but exacted them.
I looked about me, blinking, utterly bewildered. No one was to be seen. She laughed. Without really meaning to do so, I also laughed,—nervously, of course.
"Can't you see me?" she asked. I looked intently at the spot from which the sound seemed to come: a perfectly solid stone block less than three feet from my right shoulder. It must have been very amusing. She laughed again. I flushed resentfully.
"Where are you?" I cried out rather tartly.
"I can see you quite plainly, and you are very ugly when you scowl, sir. Are you scowling at me?"
"I don't know," I replied truthfully, still searching for her. "Does it seem so to you?"
"Yes."
"Then I must be looking in the right direction," I cried impolitely. "You must be—Ah!"
My straining eyes had located a small, oblong blotch in the curve of the tower not more than twenty feet from where I stood, and on a direct line with my balcony. True, I could not at first see a face, but as my eyes grew a little more accustomed to the darkness, I fancied I could distinguish a shadow that might pass for one.
"I didn't know that little window was there," I cried, puzzled.