"My father is dead," she interrupted, without taking her now serious gaze from his face.
"I beg your pardon," he said at once. "I'm sorry if I've hurt you."
"My mother is dead. Now can you understand why I am living here with my uncle? Even an amateur may rise to that. Now, sir, do you expect to purchase the sword? If not, I shall replace it in the window."
"That's what I came here for," said he, resenting her tone and the icy look she gave him.
"I gathered that you came in the capacity of Sherlock Holmes—or something else." She added the last three words with unmistakable meaning.
"You mean as a—" he hesitated, flushing.
"You knew I was alone, sir."
"By Jove, you're wrong there. I give you my word, I didn't. If I'd known it, I'd surely have come in sooner. There, forgive me. I'm particularly light-headed and futile to-day, and I hope—Beg pardon?"
She was leaning toward him, her hands on the counter, a peculiar gleam in her dark eyes—which now, for the first time, struck him as rather more keen and penetrating than he had suspected before.
"I simply want to tell you, Mr. King, that unless you really expect to buy this sword it is not wise in you to make it an excuse for coming here."