Ashton-Kirk closed the door gently, and turning faced the girl.
“Now,” thought Mr. Scanlon, “for a showdown. Here is where the golden Helen is to be brought up with a sharp turn.”
“Miss Knowles,” spoke the detective, quietly, “may I ask just how long you have known what I am?”
“I thought I knew you—when I first saw your face,” answered the girl in a low voice. “But I did not place you. It was not until I had heard your name that I knew you. You had been pointed out to me once at a Departmental reception at Washington.”
“I see,” said the other. Then with a smile: “You seem a trifle startled that day when you recognized me.”
“I was,” replied the girl, “for your appearance as Schwartzberg meant only one thing to me: That all that I had suspected was true—that Frederic was fearfully in danger—and that you had been sent for to trace out his enemies.”
“Ha!” said Mr. Scanlon, and Ashton-Kirk glanced at him with a smile.
“I rather thought it was something like that,” said the latter gentleman. “But there are a number of other questions I’d like to have you answer, so that there will be no mistake as to your position in the matter. Do you mind my asking them?”
“Why, no,” she said.
“On the night that you heard the thunderous noise out among the hills, and Mr. Campe madly rushed out to look for his tormentors, how did it come that you stood beside him when he was discovered, wounded?”