“Not at all!” he replied. “I’m simply after the facts: whether the letter belongs to you, or to the mysterious lady of the cab?”
“Who isn’t in the least mysterious to you.”
“No!”
“Really, you’re delicious, Mr. Harleston; though I confess that you have me mystified as to your game in pretending what you and I know is pretence.”
“You’re pleased to be enigmatic!” Harleston laughed.
“Oh, no I’m not,” she smiled, flashing her rings and watching the flashes—and him. “You saw me, and you know that I saw you; and I saw you and know that you saw me. Now, as I’ve said it in words of one syllable, I trust you will understand.”
“I understand,” said he; “but you have side-stepped the point:—To whom does this lost letter belong: to you or to—”
“Mrs. Clephane?” she adjected.
“Exactly: to you, or to Mrs. Clephane?”
“What does that matter to you—since it does not belong to you?”