ANTHONY TRENT apparently was in no way confused at this interruption. The woman was not to guess that his nonchalant manner and the careless lighting of a cigarette, cloaked in reality a feeling of despair at the untoward ending of his adventure. Calmly she walked past him and looked at the assemblage of finely tempered steel instruments of his profession.
“So you’re a burglar!” she said with an air of decision.
“That is a term I dislike,” said Anthony Trent genially. “Call me rather a professional collector, an abstractor, a connoisseur—anything but that.”
“It amounts to the same thing,” she returned severely, “you came here to steal my father’s money.”
“Your father’s money,” he returned slowly. “Then—then you are Miss Guestwick?”
“Naturally,” she retorted eyeing him keenly, “and if you offer any violence I shall have you arrested.”
She was amazed to see a pleasant smile break over the intruder’s face. He was exceedingly attractive when he smiled.
“What a hard heart you have!”
“You ought to realize this is no time to jest,” she said stiffly.
“I am not so sure,” he made answer.