“I sometimes get it myself when I’m worried,” said old Dangerfield. “It’s a bad business if it gets a firm hold on one. You’re not worried about anything, I hope?” he added, sympathetically.
Westenhanger hardly cared to tell a downright lie.
“Oh, nothing in particular, nothing to do with my own affairs,” he said, trying to pass the matter off lightly.
But Rollo fastened upon the tacit admission.
“You are worried, then? I’m very sorry. Nothing serious, I trust?”
Then, as if suddenly struck by a thought, he demanded:
“It’s not this Talisman affair, is it?”
Taken by surprise, Westenhanger’s face betrayed him. Rollo’s eyes missed nothing.
“You really mustn’t worry over that. The Talisman is all right, I assure you. If that were the only worry I had, I should count myself fortunate.”
He broke off in order to listen for something; and Westenhanger could see that his ears were strained to catch some faint sound, which he evidently expected. After a few seconds the old man’s vigilance seemed to relax; his eyes still turned to the open door, but apparently he was satisfied that nothing was coming. Westenhanger had little difficulty in reading the situation. Rollo was on guard to watch over his daughter if she found her way downstairs during her sleep-walking. Then, suddenly, it occurred to him that Rollo’s post lay on the road to the Corinthian’s Room. Could it be that the old man had some idea that Helga’s somnambulism was connected with the loss of the Talisman? She might have taken it during her sleep, and he might be watching her to discover, if possible, where she had concealed it. He resolved to push his inquiries, even at the cost of some failure in courtesy.