I put a hand to my hair. It was wet and very draggled where the branches from the trees and shrubs under which I had crept had pulled it. I straightened my wilted cap and tucked up the more adventurously straying locks.
“I’ve been looking for something.”
“I think you must have been,” agreed Maida, a flicker of mirth in her blue gaze. “You must have looked for it under the barberry bushes.”
As a matter of fact I had done just that. But before I could say anything O’Leary took up the conversation.
“Did you lose your hypodermic needle, Miss Day?” he asked without prelude.
Maida’s face sobered instantly and she glanced swiftly at him.
“Why, yes, I did lose it,” she said immediately.
“Is this the one you lost?” he asked, holding the syringe toward her in his outstretched palm and keeping his extraordinarily clear eyes on her face so keenly as almost to read her thoughts.
So I am sure he saw her lips tighten, as I did, and her chin go up defiantly.
“It seems to be,” she said. “I had scratched my initial on mine.” She reached for the syringe and turned it so she could see the small plunger with its marked top.