There was a new note in her voice, a hint, ever so slight, of a willingness to be friendly. He was not insensible to it. Hearing it, he put himself on guard, wondering what it portended.
"I didn't say that," he contradicted, far from graciousness. "I said you knew a whole lot more about the murder than you'd tell—tell me anyway."
"But why should I want to conceal anything that might bring the man to justice?"
"Blessed if I know!" he conceded, not without signs of irritation.
So far as he could see, not a feature of her face changed. The lifted eyebrows were still high upon her forehead, interrogative and mocking; the restless, gleaming eyes still drilled into various parts of his person and attire; the thin lips continued their moving pictures of contempt. And yet, he saw, too, that she presented to him now another countenance.
The change was no more than a shadow; and the shadow was so light that he could not be sure of its meaning. He thought it was friendliness, but that opinion was dulled by recurrence of his admiration of her "smartness." He feared some imposition.
"You've adopted Mr. Hastings' absurd theory," she said, as if she wondered. "You've subscribed to it without question."
"What theory?"
"That I know who the guilty man is."
"Well?" He was still on guard.