“This is my father’s house, and I shall alarm him,” she said determinedly. “You have no right thus to pry into his private affairs!”
“I have to decide that, Miss Griffin,” he said, as over his dark face spread that evil smile she remembered so well.
Having risen from the chair, he had now advanced closely to her. She noticed that he wore thick woollen socks over his boots, so as to muffle his footsteps, while upon his hands were a pair of grey suède gloves which appeared too large for him. Jim Jannaway had been a man of many precautions, ever since his finger-prints had been taken on a certain memorable day at Ipswich police-station, prior to his conviction.
“But,” he laughed, examining her from head to toe, “you really look charming, my dear little girl—even better than when in your walking kit. Why!” he exclaimed, pointing across the room. “Why—what’s that—over there?”
She turned suddenly, taking her eyes off him for an instant, but saw nothing. His ruse succeeded, for that instant was sufficient for him to slip behind her and close the door, turning the key in the lock.
“I must apologise for doing this in your own house, Miss Griffin, but I fear that we may be overheard,” he said. “Now I want to have a very serious chat with you.”
“I wish to say nothing to you, sir,” she replied drawing herself up haughtily, the train of her pretty gown sweeping the floor. “I only demand to know what you are doing here, reading my father’s papers.”
“And suppose I refuse to tell you—eh?” he asked, raising his brows.
“Then I shall scream, and alarm the household. They will hand you over to the police.”
“And if you were so ill-advised as to do that, Miss Griffin,” answered the fellow impudently, advancing a step nearer to her, and looking straight into her face. “Well—you would suffer very severely for it. That’s all.”