The Blue Domino swung about and leaned toward me, her hands tense upon the sides of her chair.
"What name did you say?"—a strained note in her voice.
"Hawthorne," I answered, taking out the slip of pasteboard. "See! it says that one blue domino was rented of Monsieur Friard at five-thirty this afternoon."
"How did you come by that ticket?" she demanded.
"It was a miracle. I purchased a mask there, and this ticket was wrapped up in my bundle by mistake."
"It is a curious coincidence,"—her voice normal and unagitated.
I was confused. "Then I am mistaken?"—my chagrin evident. (All this while, mind you, I was wondering if that cellar-door was unlocked, and how long it would take me to reach it before the dénouement!)
"One way or the other, it does not matter," said she.
"Yet, if I could reach the cellars,"—absently. Then I bit my tongue.
"Cellars? Who said anything about cellars? I meant that this is not the hour for unmasking or disclosing one's identity,"—coldly.