"Simply that between us we've gummed this business up neatly--hard and
fast. You see--I hadn't any use for that hat; I stopped in at an
all-night telegraph station and left it to be delivered to Miss Landis,
never dreaming what the consequences would be. Immediately thereafter,
but too late, I learned--I've a way of finding out what's going on, you
know--that Miss Landis had already put the case in the hands of the
police. It makes it very serious for you--the bandbox returned, the
necklace still in your possession, your wild, incredible yarn about
meaning to restore it ..."
In her overwrought and harassed condition, the sophistry illuded her;
she was sensible only of the menace his words distilled. She saw herself
tricked and trapped, meshed in a web of damning circumstance; everything
was against her--appearances, the hands of all men, the cruel accident
that had placed the necklace in her keeping, even her parentage. For she
was the daughter of a notorious thief, a man whose name was an
international byword. Who would believe her protestations of
innocence--presuming that the police should find her before she could
reach either Staff or Miss Landis?
"But," she faltered, white to her lips, "I can take it to her
now--instantly--"
Instinctively she clutched her handbag. The man's eyes appreciated the
movement. His face was shadowed for a thought by the flying cloud of a
sardonic smile. And the girl saw and read that smile.
"Unless," she stammered, retreating from him a pace or two--"unless
you--"
He silenced her with a reassuring gesture.
"You do misjudge me!" he said in a voice that fairly wept.