“I was lost on the moor,” she faltered. “I followed you to Rudha Mor and saw you leave in the Yellow Dove. When I turned to go back, a cloth was thrown over my head. They chloroformed me——”
He muttered an imprecation. “And on the yacht——”
“I—I had nothing to complain of. He did everything he could for my comfort.”
She watched him again moving around the room. At the chimney he paused and, reaching swiftly upward, lifted the clock and then put it into its place again, the expression in his face still strained and anxious.
“I am not sorry for him,” he said again. Suddenly he came to her saying in such a low whisper that she could hardly hear him,
“I’m not satisfied. There’s something dangerous in von Stromberg’s sudden kindness. Act, Doris. We are overheard.” And then in louder tones, “If anything had happened to you——”
She glanced around her timidly, her initiative suddenly at a loss.
“N-nothing happened to me,” she repeated bewildered.
“I would have made another death for him—a man’s death at least.”