What was
it?"
"I'll tell you," he answered, "if you'll tell me truly what was in
that packing-case?"
"Oh, now I understand," she cried excitedly. "It was to find that
out you came--and then Mr. Dawson made you help us get it away.
That was splendid."
He did not speak, for once more a kind of horror held him dumb, as
it seemed to him that she really--knew.
She saw the mingled horror and bewilderment in his eyes, and she
laughed lightly as though that amused her.
"Do you know," she said, "I believe I guessed as much from the
first, but I'm afraid Mr. Dawson was too clever for you--as he is
for most people. Only then," she added, wrinkling her brows as
though a new point puzzled her, "why are you staying here like
this?"
"Can't you guess that too?" he asked hoarsely.
"No," she said, shaking her head with a frankly puzzled air. "No,
I can't. That's puzzled me all the time. Do you know--I think
you ought to shave?"
"Why?"
"A beard makes a good disguise," she answered, "so good it's hardly
fair for you to have it when I can't."
"Perhaps you need it less," he answered bitterly, "or perhaps no
disguise could be so effective as the one you have already."
"What's that?" she asked.
"Bright eyes, a pretty face, a clear complexion," he answered.
He spoke with an extreme energy and bitterness that she did not in
the least understand, and that quite took away from the words any
suspicion of intentional rudeness.
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