“Certainly,” she answered.  “Now I’ve answered your question, will you answer me one?  Why did you tell us your name was Charley Wright?”

“I knew a man of that name once,” he answered.  “He’s dead now.”

“I thought perhaps,” she said slowly and quite calmly, “that it was because you had seen the name written on a photograph in my room.”

“No, it wasn’t that,” he answered gravely, and his doubts that for a moment had seemed so terribly confirmed, now came back again, for though she had said that she knew of the contents of the packing-case, yet, if that were really so, how was it conceivable that she should speak of such a thing so calmly?

And yet again, if she could do it, perhaps also she could talk of it without emotion.  Once more there was fear in his eyes as he watched her, and her own were troubled and doubtful.

“Why do you have all that hair on your face?” she asked.

“Well, why shouldn’t I?” he retorted.  “It saves trouble.”

“Does it?” she said.  “Do you know what it looks like—­like a disguise?”

“A disguise?” he repeated.  “Why should I want a disguise?”

“Do you think I’m quite a fool because I’m a woman?” she asked impatiently.  “Do you suppose I couldn’t see very well when you came that night that you were not an ordinary burglar?  You had some reason of your own for breaking into this house.  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.