“Oh! Well, I don’t like her—that’s all,” was her reply, as she smiled.
“I think she’s quite nice,” I said. “She was most charming to me this morning.”
“And she is also charming to me. But she seems so horribly inquisitive, and asks me so many questions about my father—questions I can’t answer.”
“Why not?” I asked, turning to her and for a second taking my eyes off the road.
“Well—you know, Mr. Hargreave—you surely know,” the girl hesitated. “Why are we on this visit? My father has some sinister plans—without a doubt.”
“How sinister plans?” I asked, in pretence of ignorance.
“You well know,” she answered. “I am not blind, even if Duperré and his wife think I am. They forget that there is such a thing as illustrated papers.”
“I don’t follow,” I said.
“Well, in the Daily Graphic three days ago I saw the portrait of a man named Lawrence, well-known as a jewel thief, who was sentenced to ten years’ penal servitude at the Old Bailey. I recognized him as Mr. Moody, one of my father’s friends who often came to see us at Overstow—a man you also know. Why has my father thieves for his friends, unless he is in some way connected with them?”
“Moody sentenced!” I gasped. “Why, he was one of Duperré’s most intimate friends. I’ve met them together often,” I remarked, and then the conversation dropped, and we sat silent for a full quarter of an hour.