“Well, she got away with it without the tremor of an eyelash, didn’t she?” Blount afterward observed, and Gregory had to agree that she had.
Again, it was Gregory who attempted a reference of this kind. She had come out after a short instrumental interpretation at the piano, where, it seemed to him, she had been posing in a graceful statuesque way—for whose benefit? He knew that she knew he could see her from where he sat.
“It’s pretty hard work, without much reward,” he suggested seemingly idly.
“What is? I don’t quite understand,” and she looked at him questioningly.
“No?” he smiled in a light laughing manner. “Well, that’s a cryptic way I have. I say things like that. Just a light hint at a dark plot, possibly. You mustn’t mind me. You wouldn’t understand unless you know what I know.”
“Well, what is it you know, then, that I don’t?” she inquired.
“Nothing definite yet. Just an idea. Don’t mind me.”
“Really, you are very odd, both you and Mr. Blount. You are always saying such odd things and then adding that you don’t mean anything. And what’s cryptic?”
Gregory, still laughing at her, explained.
“Do you know, you’re exceedingly interesting to me as a type. I’m watching you all the while.”