CHAPTER XII.—CAGED.
Thus abruptly interrogated, Madeline goes red as crimson, and trembles violently. Then by a mighty effort she recovers herself, conquers the violent trembling of her hands, and raises her head.
He repeats the question; whereupon Madeline turns her head coldly away.
The movement is abrupt enough to send her vis-à-vis straight from the room, but, curiously enough, he lingers. Madeline does not look at him, but she feels that he is examining her—his eyes search her face, her figure, her hands. With an impulsive movement she turns slightly, interlaces her fingers, so as to hide from his searching gaze the third finger of her left hand; then gives one quick glance at his face.
‘I do not know you, monsieur!’
‘No, Madame.’ He lays unusual stress upon the title. ‘But the fact of your having used the English language must pass as my excuse for having addressed you at all. Can I be of any service to you?’
He asks the question slowly, but without a moment’s hesitation Madeline replies—
‘No, no.’
The answer, which is more like a pitiful appeal than a cold dismissal, holds the man to his place.