She did not shift by so much as a hairbreadth her position of defense, yet, ever so slightly, her eyes widened.
“And I’m not, either,” he persisted. “Don’t you see? Things like this don’t happen. One of us is asleep and dreaming—and I must be that one.”
Plainly she did not follow him, but his laughter had been so boyishly innocent as to make her patently doubtful of her own assumption. He crowded that advantage.
“Honestly,” he said, “I didn’t mean any harm——”
“You at least place yourself in a strange position,” the girl interrupted, though the hand that held the knife was lowered to her side.
“But if you really doubt me,” he continued, “and don’t want to wait until I pick this lock, let me call from the window and get somebody in the street to send up the concierge.”
“The street?” She evidently did not like this idea. “No, not the street. Why do you not ring for him?”
Cartaret’s gesture included the four walls of the room:
“There’s no bell.”
Still a little suspicious of him, her blue eyes scanned the room to confirm his statement.