But this afternoon it discovered an unusual vein of irritability in her. He stood with his hands in his pockets looking at Miss Klegg’s back. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. “Splendid you are looking to-day, Miss Stanley,” he said. In vain did the woollendraper offer to set him free if he would restore the stolen article, or give up his associate, to whom it was supposed he might have handed it. He did not know what her game was, although he had a shrewd suspicion that she had been co-opted into it by her supposed husband, the soi-disant Valade.
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