M'sieur Beaucaire, just from the gaming table—Don Juan on the Nevski Prospekt—Buckingham on his way to the Tuileries—they all might have been talking to her, warming her thoughts not so much by what they said as by what they might say, appealing to her like a romance which must, however, be read to the end if you wish to know the full story.
They were going through an empty corridor when it happened. Burdon, drawling away as agreeably as ever, gently closed his fingers around Mary's hand.
"I might have known," she thought in a little panic. "It's my own fault."
But when she tried to pull her hand away, her panic grew.
"No, no," said Burdon, laughing low, his eyes more reckless than ever, "you might tell—if I stopped now. But you'll never tell a soul on earth—if I kiss you."
Even while Mary was struggling, her head held down, she couldn't help thinking, "So that's the way he does it," and felt, I think, as feels the fly who has walked into the parlour. The next moment she heard a sharp voice, "Here—stop that!" and running steps approaching.
"I think it was Archey," she thought, as she made her escape, her knees shaking, her breath coming fast. She knew it was, ten minutes later, when Archey found her in the office—knew it from the way he looked at her and the hesitation of his speech—but it wasn't until they were shaking hands in parting that she saw the cut on his knuckles.
"You've hurt yourself," she said. "Wait; I have some adhesive plaster."
Even then she didn't guess.
"How did you do it?" she asked.
"Oh, I don't know—"