“How could that be?”
“He has duplicate keys, I suppose. Once before I have reason to believe he was there. We struggled together, one on each side of a door. It was in the dark, and he managed to dodge past me, but I fired at him and drew blood, I think.”
“When was that?” she demanded with a quickness which did not escape him.
“On the morning of the day you were to have met me at the cemetery, but sent such a bitter little note instead.”
“A bitter little note!”
And thus were the words said which, pursued for another sentence, must have unmasked Van Hupfeldt wholly; but they were both so excited, so carried out of all bounds of reasoned thought, that Violet flew off at a tangent, and David doubled after her, so delightful was it to hear the words coming from her lips, to watch her eyes telegraph their secret meanings.
“He was lame that day,” she whispered. “He is not quite free from stiffness in his walk yet.”
“Ah! I hit him then?” And David smiled a different kind of smile to that which Violet was learning to like.
“But if all that you say is true, the man is a monster,” she cried in a sudden rage.