The female associate was speaking, and her first words set all Mr Pickering's suspicions dancing a dance of triumph. The girl gave herself away with her opening sentence.
'You can't think how nervous I was this afternoon,' he heard her say. She had a soft pleasant voice; but soft, pleasant voices may be the vehicles for conveying criminal thoughts. 'I thought every moment one of those newspaper men would look in here.'
Where was here? Ah, that outhouse! Mr Pickering had had his suspicions of that outhouse already. It was one of those structures that look at you furtively as if something were hiding in them.
'James! James! I thought I heard James in those bushes.'
The girl was looking straight at the spot occupied by Mr Pickering, and it had been the start caused by her first words and the resultant rustle of branches that had directed her attention to him. He froze. The danger passed. She went on speaking. Mr Pickering pondered on James. Who was James? Another of the gang, of course. How many of them were there?
'Once I thought it was all up. One of them was about a yard from the window, just going to look in.'
Mr Pickering thrilled. There was something hidden in the outhouse, then! Swag?
'Thank goodness, a bee stung him at the psychological moment, and—oh!'
She stopped, and The Man spoke:
'What's the matter?'