“Oh, no, it couldn’t be in there,” said Peyton, 210 lightly. “But, yes. One of the servants might have laid it on the shelf.” And he made for the closet.
“Oh, no!”
Miss Sally stood against the closet doors and held out her hands to ward him off.
“No harm to look,” said he, passing around her and putting his hand on the door.
Miss Sally felt that, by remaining in the position of a physical obstacle to his opening the closet, she would betray all. Acting on the inspiration of the instant, she ran to the centre of the room, and cried:
“Oh, come away! Come here!” and essayed a well-meant, but feeble and abortive, scream.
“What’s the matter?” asked Peyton, astonished.
“Oh, I’m going to faint!” she said, feigning a sinkiness of the knees and a floppiness of the head.
“Oh, pray don’t faint!” cried Peyton, running to support her. “I haven’t time. Let me call some one. Let me help you to the sofa.”
By this time he held her in his arms, and was thinking her another sort of burden than Tom Jones found Sophia, or Clarissa was to Roderick Random.