"Can't you tell them to me? Perhaps I can help you."
One of those sudden waves of color I'd seen before passed across her face. As if to hide it she dropped her head lower over the paper, touching up the marks she was making. Her voice came soft and controlled:
"That's very kind of you, Mr. Reddy—But I know you're kind—I knew it when I first met you a year ago in the country. No, I can't tell you."
I leaned nearer to her. If I had a chance to make her speak it was now or never.
"Miss Whitehall," I said, trying to inject a simple, casual friendliness into my voice. "You're almost alone in the world, you've no one—no man, I mean—to look after you or your interests. You don't know how much help I might be able to give you."
"In what way?" she asked, with her eyes still on the paper.
For a moment I was nonplused. I couldn't tell her what I knew—I couldn't go back on my office. I was tied hand and foot; all I could do with honesty was to try to force the truth from her. Like a fool I stammered out:
"In advice—in—in—a larger knowledge of the world than you can have."
She gave a slight, bitter smile, and tilting her head backward looked critically at her drawings:
"My knowledge of the world is larger than you think—maybe larger than yours. There's only one thing you can do for me, but there is one."