"Please understand, Mr. Merton," she went on earnestly, "that I should never have dreamt of letting you know that I had recognised you—I haven't even told father, I assure you!—only when I heard of this dreadful death of Mr. Bolton—"
She paused and glanced at me, half apologetically, half beseechingly, it seemed.
"Well?" I said.
"Well, I realised the danger you were in supposing anybody else guessed. And I thought I'd come and speak to you. I'm afraid I sometimes act on impulse."
"So do I," I confessed. "In fact I'm going to act on impulse now. Do you care to hear some bits of the story you don't know?"
Her eyes absolutely danced.
"Oh, I'd love to! I've been longing—dying to know the rest of it! I've guessed and guessed, but I haven't been able to make any sense out of things!"
I remembered my uncle's injunctions distinctly. I also remembered my cousin's cautions and my own good resolutions. A woman, of all things, I was to beware of; but I knew I was perfectly safe to throw overboard the whole collection of cautions: and already I had a strong suspicion I should be far from a loser by it. Miss Rendall seemed, in fact, to have distinctly more natural capacity for detective work than I had, judging by her performances so far.
So I plunged straight into the tale of my first landing on Ransay and my adventure with the oilskinned man on the shore, and may I always have as attentive an audience when I tell a story.
"So there is actually a German who dares to live on Ransay!" she exclaimed, her cheeks flushing a little.