"He's as sharp as a razor," thought the lady, "and as shy as a partridge. Half measures won't do with him. I must fight him on his own ground."
"By jingo! she's as keen as a catamount!" thought the gentleman, in a burst of admiration. "She'll be a credit to the man that marries her. What a pity she don't belong down to Maine. She's a sight too cute for a born Britisher."
There was a long pause. Miss Silver and Mr. Parmalee looked each other full in the eye without winking. All at once the gentleman burst out laughing.
"Get out!" said Mr. Parmalee. "Go 'long—do! You're too smart for this world—you are, by gosh! Miss Sybilla Silver."
"Almost smart enough for a Yankee, Mr. Parmalee, and wonderfully good at guessing."
"Yes? And what have you guessed this time?"
"That you have Lady Kingsland's secret; that that portrait—the last of the five—is the clew. That you hold the baronet's bride in the hollow of your hand!"
She spoke the last words close to his ear, in a fierce, sibilant whisper. The American actually recoiled.
"Go 'long!" repeated Mr. Parmalee. "Don't you go whistling in a fellow's ear like that, Miss S.; it tickles. Got any more to say?"
"Only this: that you had better make a friend of me, Mr. Parmalee."