Declining the offer of her father's candle, Pen went down.
Riever alone was framed in the opening of the front door, the moonlight behind him. When Pen got close enough she saw Delehanty and Keesing waiting in the grass below the porch. Pen stopped a little more than arm's length from Riever. She couldn't see his face well.
"You needn't be afraid," he said in a voice smooth, yet a little truculent, too, a sort of hang-dog voice. "I just wanted to tell you that when I found Delehanty had had the house surrounded, and put a man inside I was sore. I made him call them off. I didn't want you to think I had a hand in it."
Pen was a little disconcerted, this was such a violent change from half an hour before. It was highly characteristic though of Riever to ignore everything that had gone before, characteristic of the spoiled child of any age.
"Much obliged," she said, trying to keep the note of irony out of her voice.
If he heard irony he did not betray it. "Well ... that's all I wanted to say. That I was sorry you were annoyed ... Will you shake hands on it?"
"Surely!" said Pen. She offered her hand with a mental reservation: "If you're deceiving me as I suspect, this doesn't count!"
She thought he would never have done fondling her hand. She ground her teeth and endured it.
"Well ... good-night," he said at last.
"Good-night," said Pen.