“I think it’s the police,” she whispered.
Then suddenly she fell to weeping.
“Oh, Mr. Trent,” she said brokenly, “I know.”
“What?” he cried sharply, suddenly alert to danger, turned in that moment from the debonair careless idler to one in imminent risk of capture.
“About you,” she said.
“What about me?” he exclaimed impatiently.
“I know how you make your living. I didn’t spy on you, sir, believe me, I just happened on it.” Timidly she looked over to the Benares lamp gracefully swinging in its dim corner. “I know about that.”
For a moment Anthony Trent said nothing. A few minutes ago he had sat in the same chair as he now occupied congratulating himself on a new life that seemed so near and so desirable. Now he was learning that the little, shrinking woman, who so violently denounced crime and criminals, had found him out. What compromise could he effect with her? Was it likely that she was instrumental in denouncing him to the authorities, tempted perhaps by the rewards his capture would bring? For the moment it was useless to ask how she had discovered the lamp’s secret.
“What are you going to do?” he demanded. He was assuredly not going to wait for the police to arrest him if escape were possible. He might have to shut the old woman in a closet and make his hurried exit. He always had a large sum of money about him. Of late the banks had been aiding the government by disclosing the names of those depositors who invested sums of a size that seemed incompatible with their positions and ways of living. He feared to make such deposits that might lead to investigation and of late had secreted what money his professional gains had brought him.
“What am I going to do?” she echoed. “Why help you if I can.”