"It's beautiful!" he cried—"it's wonderful! It only came to me on the spur of the moment to say that she was here; I wanted to see if that young fool would rise to the bait. And now he's gone off—and he's a marked man; that constable's not likely to let him come near me again in a hurry. Gone out like a whipped cur, with his tail between his legs. It was beautiful!"
"And he's left you with the girl," said Dawkins, with his smile.
Murray Olivant sat up, and stared at him. "What—haven't you tumbled to it yet?" he demanded. "There's no girl here—and there never has been. She'll come here sooner or later, no doubt; but she's not here now."
"Oh, come, my dear Olivant, you can't bluff me, you know," exclaimed Dawkins, beginning to show a little temper over the business. "The girl's here right enough."
"Open the door and look for yourself," said Olivant composedly. "Personally, I wish I could say that she had been here; but she hasn't."
Dawkins, after a glance at him, strode across the room, and flung open the door; turned up the light, and went poking and prying about. Fanshawe stood at the door of that inner room, and peered in also. Dawkins came out, and closed the door again.
"There are no other rooms," said Olivant, still laughing—"except my servant's room across the hall. You can go and look in there, if you like."
"No, thank you," replied Dawkins. "But hang me if I thought it was a bluff to begin with—and neither did the boy. More than that, I don't quite see the object of it."
"Then I'll tell you," said Olivant, with a note of bitterness in his voice. "He's gone away now, eating his heart out—mad with jealousy. If he meets her to-morrow, and she holds out her arms to him, he'll most likely turn away, and refuse to speak to her. Love's a frail thing, and wants carefully nourishing. Now get out, and leave me in peace," he added—"I'm tired."