"If you don't mind," he said whimsically—(this seems the only word, although—can a burglar be whimsical?)—"I wish you would tell me how you opened that cupboard door. It was locked an hour ago."
"I dare say it was very unprofessional," I said boldly—for he didn't show any sign of trying to choke me, and my courage was returning, "but—I did it with a hairpin."
"Ah!" He was thoughtful. "And—I suppose that is the way you opened the front entry door, also?"
"No. Violet had a key——" I began. Then I stopped, furious at myself.
He dropped the sandwich again and took a step forward with his eyes narrowed.
"Violet!" he said.
It seems extraordinary, looking back, to think I could have mistaken him for a thief when he was something else altogether. But that wasn't the only mistake I made. I could scream when I remember. He was not at all like his picture, and because I hadn't recognised him as Basil Harcourt, who hated The Cause, I had lost quantities of valuable time.
One thinks quickly in emergencies, and women have one advantage over men. They can think very hard while they are talking about an entirely different subject. His next question gave me a cue. He came forward and leaned on the table, near the candle. I could see he was not very old after all—not nearly so old as I had expected.
"I know it isn't my affair at all," he began, half smiling, "but—I am under the impression that the Hall has been closed for some years. And yet—I find a young woman here alone, surrounded by—er—dust and decay. It's a sort of reversed Sleeping Beauty and the Prince. You should have been asleep. As you say, it isn't my affair, but—what in the world brought you here?"
(When I told this afterward Poppy said: "It sounds exactly like him, of course.")