Markham's eye lit hopefully.
"I am, it seems, completely at your mercy," he laughed.
He preceded her into the living room and in doing so failed to note the brief pause she made beside the stairs to the loft, upon the steps of which, and upon the floor beneath them, plainly to be seen were a number of small particles of mud, broken and dried. Nor did he see the quick smile of triumph replace the puzzled look with which she had pursued her investigations. She followed him in and with a sigh of content dropped into a chair by the fireplace, crossing her knees and leisurely lighting a cigarette.
"Enfin," she laughed. "Here we are gain—thou and I, Monsieur le philospophe."
He shrugged.
"At your pleasure," he replied.
She examined his face a moment before she went on. And then softly:
"Why did you run away from me last night? You did, you know, Philidor, or you wouldn't be here."
He hesitated a moment.
"I was afraid you'd insist—on my joining your house party."