The look he bent upon Eleanor was almost a sneer: a smile in part contemptuous, in part studious; as though he pondered a problem in human chemistry from the view-point of a seasoned and experienced scientist. He cocked his head a bit to one side and stared insolently beneath half-lowered lids, now and again nodding ever so slightly as if in confirmation of some unspoken conclusion.
Against the cold, inflexible purpose in his manner, the pitiful prayer expressed in the girl’s attitude spent itself without effect. Her hands dropped to her sides; her head drooped wearily, hopelessly; her pose personified despondency profound and irremediable.
When he had timed his silence cunningly, to ensure the most impressive effect, the man moved, shifting from one foot to the other, and spoke.
“Well, Nelly ...?”
His voice, modulated to an amused drawl, was much like Iff’s.
The girl’s lips moved noiselessly for an instant before she managed to articulate.
“So,” she said in a quiet tone of horror—“So it was you all the time!”
“What was me?” enquired the man inelegantly if with spirit.
“I mean,” she said, “you were after the necklace, after all.”
“To be sure,” he said pertly. “What did you think?”