“It put me in mind of Mr. Morgan’s room; he has things like that—spikenard and saffron, and the rest.”
“Morgan’s room—how do you know?”
She was terrified by his pounce upon her out of the heart of his abstraction.
“Oh, I was sent there with a message.”
“To-day?”
“Yes, this afternoon.” Although she was guiltless she had all the quick panic of guilt,—what should she say? what must she not say? hold concealed?—and she felt that Silas held her pinned down beneath talons while he pried.
“What message?”
“Miss Dawson wanted something.”
“What did she want?”
“To know whether he had ordered some printed labels.” Again that panic of guilt, reassured now because she could answer his question without stumbling. She almost wanted to call his attention to it, to say, “Look, I’m telling the truth; there’s no necessity for me to invent.”