“There can be nothing that forces you to come here—nothing!” Her lips were trembling; her voice wavered; the apparent shamelessness of my behavior was driving her to the verge of tears. “Is there no place where I am safe from you? Mr. Bayne, how can you? I shan’t listen to a single word while you keep your foot in the door!”
“And I can’t take it away until you listen,” I protested. “It is perfectly obvious that if I did, you would shut me out. But you can see for yourself that I’m not trying to force an entrance—and I wish that you would speak lower; if we waken anybody, there will be the mischief to pay.”
My voice, I suppose, had an impatient note that was reassuring, or perhaps I looked encouragingly respectable, viewed at closer range. At any rate, she spoke less angrily, though she still stood erect and haughty.
“Well, what is it?” she asked, barring the opening with one slender arm.
“May I ask if you have had a message from me, Miss Falconer?”
“A message? Certainly not!” There was renewed suspicion in her voice.
“H’m.” Then they had intercepted the man before he reached her. “I’m going to ask you to dress as quickly and quietly as possible and come downstairs. Don’t stop in the court, and don’t go near the garage, I beg of you. Just walk on past the salle a manger to the garden, and wait for me.”
I expected exclamations, questions, indignant protests, anything but the sudden white calm that fell on her at my request.
“You mean,” she whispered, “that something dreadful has happened. Is it about the—the men who came last night?”
“Yes. But please don’t worry,” I urged with false heartiness. “I’ll explain when you come down.” To cut the discussion short, I turned to go.