“Tell me, you ugly man,” she murmured, “why you are such a fool.”
Hugh smiled, and, as has been said before, Hugh’s smile transformed his face.
“I must remember that opening,” he said. “So many people, I feel convinced, would like to say it on first acquaintance, but confine themselves to merely thinking it. It establishes a basis of intimacy at once, doesn’t it?”
She swayed a little towards him, and then, before he realised her intention, she put a hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t you understand,” she whispered fiercely, “that they’ll kill you?” She peered past him half fearfully, and then turned to him again. “Go, you idiot, go—while there’s time. Oh! if I could only make you understand; if you’d only believe me! Get out of it—go abroad; do anything—but don’t fool round here.”
In her agitation she was shaking him to and fro.
“It seems a cheerful household,” remarked Hugh with a smile. “May I ask why you’re all so concerned about me? Your estimable father gave me the same advice yesterday morning.”
“Don’t ask why,” she answered feverishly, “because I can’t tell you. Only you must believe that what I say is the truth—you must. It’s just possible that if you go now and tell them where you’ve hidden the American you’ll be all right. But if you don’t——” Her hand dropped to her side suddenly. “Breakfast will be at nine, my Hugh: until then, au revoir.”
He turned as she left the room, a little puzzled by her change of tone. Standing at the top of the stairs was Peterson, watching them both in silence....
II