“Ah!” she gasped, glaring at me in alarm. “It is—yes, it is his!”
The small gold pencil which I had inadvertently used was the one I had taken from the pocket of the dead unknown on that fateful August night.
Chapter Thirteen.
The Enchantment of a Face.
The face of Mabel Anson, my new-found friend and idyll, had in that instant changed. Her countenance was pale as death, while the hand holding the small pencil trembled.
“Whence did you obtain this?” she demanded in an awe-stricken tone, which showed plainly that she recognised it. She held her breath in expectancy.
What could I reply? To explain the truth was impossible, for I had pledged my honour to Edna to preserve the secret. Besides, I had no wish to horrify her by the strange story of my midnight adventure. Hence a lie arose involuntarily to my lips.
“I found it,” I stammered.