Inley went on: “She had a handkerchief tied over her cap and under her chin, and a small lantern in her hands, on which she wore black mittens. I can see her now. We stood there on the path for a minute staring at each other without a word. The light from the lantern flickered over the revolver, and I saw Miss Bassett look down at it.”
He stopped, poured out a glass of water, and drank it off like a man who has been running.
“Didn’t she show surprise—fear?” I asked.
“Not a bit. Women are so extraordinary, even old women who’ve never been in touch with life, that I’m certain now she understood directly her eyes fell on the revolver.”
“What did she do?”
“After a minute she said: ‘Lord Inley, I’m looking for my cat. Have you seen him?’
“‘Yes,’ I said; ‘he’s run into the house.’
“It was a lie, but I wanted her to go in. I had slipped the revolver back into my pocket, and tried to assume a perfectly simple, natural air. I fancied it would be very easy to impose on Miss Bassett when I heard her question. It sounded so innocent, as if the old lady was full of her pet. I even thought, perhaps, she had not known what the revolver was when she looked at it.
“‘Did he run into the house?’ she said, still looking at me from under her wrinkled eyelids.
“‘Yes; when you came out. He was here on the path with me. You called “Johnny!” and he ran off there between the mulberry-trees.’