Tom went a step nearer to her.
"If only you..." he began eagerly, then stopped abruptly. What had he been going to say? What did he know?
"Won't you tell me who you are?" he continued more gently. She shivered.
"No, I had better go; thanks for what you have done, and ... goodbye."
She put out her hand without raising her eyes, and let the small, soft fingers rest for a moment in his own. She withdrew them with a nervous exclamation. There was again a ring at the door as the church clock struck nine, and without uttering a word the girl ran back into the smoking room. "She trusts me," he thought, and he felt oddly touched, but quickly pulled himself together.
He went out into the hall, fully determined to tell the inspector everything. Was it not his duty? But when he opened the door he was completely taken aback; for without any ado, a tall, well set-up man in a mackintosh crossed the threshold, hung his hat on a peg and unbuttoned his coat.
"Good evening," he said in a deep, mellow voice, "this house seems more lively than I was led to believe. Where is your mysterious friend Dreyel?"
Tom stood as if turned to stone.
"Maurice Wallion, by Jove!" he said panting, "I had quite forgotten you were coming."
The journalist looked at him as he wiped the rain drops from his face. Tom felt like a guilty schoolboy before those calm grey eyes, and went hot all over. A sudden smile passed over the detective's usually grave and impassive features.