Still, as I have said elsewhere, an escaped convict cannot afford to be too nice in his emotions, so I returned her kiss with the same readiness and warmth as I had done before. Then, straightening myself, I unlaced her arms from my neck, and looked down smilingly into those strange dark eyes that were turned up to mine.
"I'm a poor sort of host," I said, "but you see I am a little out of training. Won't you have some tea or anything, Sonia?"
"No, no," she answered quickly. "I don't want anything. I must go in a minute; I have to meet my father with the car." Then, taking my hand between hers, she added: "Tell me what you have been doing yourself. Have you seen your cousin—the man who lied about you at the trial? I have been afraid about him; I have been afraid that you would kill him and perhaps be found out."
"There's no hurry about it," I said. "It's rather pleasant to have something to look forward to."
"But you have seen him?"
I nodded. "I had the pleasure of walking behind him for a couple of miles yesterday. He looks a little worried, but quite well otherwise."
She laughed softly. "Ah, you can afford to let him wait. And the girl,
Joyce? Have you seen her?"
She asked the question quite dispassionately, and yet in some curious way I had a sudden vague feeling of menace and danger. Anyhow, I lied as readily and instinctively as Ananias.
"No," I said. "George is the only part of my past that interests me now."
I thought I saw the faintest possible expression of satisfaction flicker across her face, but if so it was gone immediately.