Swiftly she crossed the room to a telephone.
“I don’t think you’ll succeed,” she said, her hand on the instrument.
“Put it to the test,” he suggested. “The wires are not cut.”
“Why aren’t you afraid?” she demanded; “don’t you realize your position?”
“Fully,” he retorted, “but remember you’ll have just the same difficulty as I in explaining your presence here. Now go ahead and get the police.”
“What do you mean?” she cried. He noticed that she paled at what he said and her hands had been for a moment not quite steady.
“First that you are not a Miss Guestwick. There are only two of them and I have just left them at the Opera. Next you are neither servant nor guest. The servants are all abed and there are no house guests. I am not accustomed to making mistakes in matters of this sort. Now, I’m not inviting confidences and I’m not making threats, but the doors are locked and I intend to get what I came for. Ring all you like and see if a servant answers you. By the way how is it I overlooked you when I came in?”
“I hid behind those portières.”
“It was excusable,” he commented, “not to have looked there.”
She sank into a chair her whole face suffused with gloom. He steeled his heart against feeling sympathy for her. He would liked to have learned all about her but there was not much time. The Guestwicks might return earlier than usual or Briggs might be lurking the other side of the door.