“The kindness is on your side,” he said. “And now, Mrs. Kennedy, I think—I think, perhaps”—he looked at the window that gave on the balcony—“I think I’d better—”
“You must be going!” I cried, just as I say it to the bishop when he puts down his cup and looks at the clock. “How unfortunate! But, of course, your other engagements—”
I checked myself, suddenly realizing that it wasn’t just the thing to say to the major. When you’re talking to a burglar it doesn’t seem delicate or thoughtful to allude to his “other engagements.” That I made such a break is due to the fact that I’d never talked to a burglar before, and was bound to be a little green.
The major did not seem to mind.
“Exactly so,” he said. “My time is just now much occupied. I—er—I—”
He looked again at the window.
“I—er—entered that way,” he said, “but perhaps—”
“I don’t think I’d go out that way if I were you,” I answered, hurriedly, “it would look so queer if any one saw you.”
“Would the other and more usual exit be safe?” he asked. His eye, as it met mine, was charged with a keener intelligence than I had seen in it before.
“It would have to be,” I answered, with spirit. “What do you suppose the servants would think if they saw you coming out of here? This, Major Thatcher, is my room.”