"I would have questioned any man that came here with Tip. Tip doesn't take up with toughs and hobos. What was he like?"
Esmée had retreated under this cross-questioning, and stood at some distance from Jack, pale, and trembling with an ague of the nerves.
"What was he like?" Jack repeated.
"He was most awfully beautiful. He had a face like—like a death-angel."
Jack rejected this phrase with an impatient gesture. "Was he fair, with blue eyes, and a little blond mustache?"
"I don't know. The light was not good. He stood close to the window, or I could not have seen him. What have I done? Was it wrong not to open the door?"
"Never mind about that, Esmée. I want you to describe the man."
"I can't describe him. I don't need to. I know—I know it was your brother."
"It must have been; and we have been sitting here—how many hours?"
"I did not know there could be anybody—who—had a right to come in."