“I know you don’t,” I interrupted, impulsively. “How could you be expected to? And I can’t explain. It’s a most complicated matter, and would take too long. Only don’t be frightened and run away till you’ve taken something. You’ve endangered your life and risked going to prison to get in here; and wouldn’t it be too foolish, after that, to go without anything? Now, in the jewelry-box”—I indicated it, and spoke in what I hoped was a most insinuating tone—“there are some things that I think you’d like. If you’d just look at them—”
“You’re a most persuasive lady,” said the burglar, “but—”
He moved again toward the window. A feeling of absolute anguish that he was going without the diamonds pierced me. I threw myself in front of him again, and in some way, I can’t tell you how, caught the handkerchief that covered his face and pulled it down. There was the handsome visage and long mustache of Major Thatcher!
I backed away from him in the greatest confusion. He too blushed and looked uncomfortable.
“Oh, Major Thatcher,” I murmured, “I beg your pardon! I’m so sorry. I don’t know how it happened. I think the end of the handkerchief caught in my bracelet.”
“Pray don’t mention it,” answered the major, “nothing at all.”
Then we were both silent, standing opposite one another, not knowing what to say. It is not easy to feaze me, but it must be admitted that the situation was unusual.
“How is Mrs. Thatcher?” I said, desperately, when the silence had become unbearable. And the major replied, in his deepest voice, and with his most abrupt military air:
“Ethel’s very fit. Never was better in her life, thank you. Mr. Kennedy is quite well, I hope?”
“Cassius is enjoying the best of health,” I answered. “He’s out to-night, I’m sorry to say.”