Furneaux held out the note of Rupert Osborne to Janoc intended for Clarke, holding it so folded that the name of the hotel was not visible—only the transferred word "Rosalind."
And as Hylda Prout bent over it, perplexed at first by the seeming scrawl, Furneaux's eye was on her face. He was aware of the instant when she recognized the handwriting, the instant when reasoning and the putting of two-and-two together began to work in her mind, the instant when her stare began to widen, and her tight-pressed lips to relax, the rush of color to fade from her face, and the mask of freckles to stand out darkly in strong contrast with her ivory white flesh. When she had stared for a long minute, and had had enough, she did not say anything, but turned away silently to stand at a window, her back to Furneaux.
He looked at her, thinking: "She guesses, and suffers."
Suddenly she whirled round. "May I—see that letter?" she asked in a low voice.
"The whole note?" he said; "I'm afraid that it's private—not my secret—I regret it—an official document, you know."
"All right," she said quietly. "You may come to me for help yet"—and turned to the pile of letters on the desk.
"Anyway, Rosalind is not a relative, to your knowledge?" he persisted.
"No."
She stuffed the letters into a drawer, bowed, and was gone, leaving him sorry for her, for he saw a lump working in her throat.
Some minutes after her disappearance, a plump little woman came in—Mrs. Hester Bates, housekeeper in the Osborne ménage. Her hair lay in smooth curves on her brow as on the upturned bulge of a china bowl. There was an apprehensive look in her upward-looking eyes, so Furneaux spoke comfortingly to her, after seating her near the window.