Oliver glanced over his shoulder at Jane. Their eyes met and their gaze held for some seconds. He detected the clouded, troubled look in hers and was suddenly conscious of what must have seemed to her a serious intensity in his own. Without a word, he left Mrs. Sage and went to Jane.
“Don’t worry,” he said to her in a low tone. “You couldn’t have said anything to Malone that—”
“It isn’t that,” she interrupted nervously. “It is the feeling that we are all being spied upon.” She hesitated a moment. “I remember one thing. He asked me what kind of a night it was.”
“Well, there wasn’t any harm in telling him, was there?” he chided. “That is, if you remembered.”
“I do remember. He said that some one had told him it was a rainy, stormy night. I assured him he had been misinformed—that it hadn’t rained for weeks. He—he seemed surprised.”
“Well, what of that?”
Her wide-set gray eyes wavered. They steadied instantly, however, and she smiled—a confident, disarming smile.
“I suppose it’s the finding out that he was a detective and that he was pumping me,” she explained.
“Anyhow, you are smiling again,” he half whispered, “and that makes me want to sing and dance for joy.” He was once more aware that his voice was throaty and unsteady.
A faint wave of color spread to her cheek and brow, but she did not look away. When she spoke again it was at the conclusion of a long, deep exhalation; the sentence ended in a fluttering, breathless murmur.