He was prepared for the glance and met it steadily.

In the long moment that her eyes searched his face it was she and not he who changed color.  She was the first to speak.  “You were the man whose hands I saw in the tent,” she said.  She made the statement in her usual soft tones, but a slight tremor of excitement underran her voice.  Poodles, Persian kittens, even crystal gazing-balls, seemed very far away in face of this tangible, fabulous, present interest.  “You are not Jack Chilcote,” she said, very slowly.  “You are wearing his clothes, and speaking in his voice but you are not Jack Chilcote.”  Her tone quickened with a touch of excitement.  “You needn’t keep silent and look at me,” she said.  “I know quite well what I am saying—­though I don’t understand it, though I have no real proof—­” She paused, momentarily disconcerted by her companion’s silent and steady gaze, and in the pause a curious and unexpected thing occurred.

Loder laughed suddenly—­a full, confident, reassured laugh.  All the web that the past half-hour had spun about him, all the intolerable sense of an impending crash, lifted suddenly.  He saw his way clearly—­and it was Lillian who had opened his eyes.

Still looking at her, he smiled—­a smile of reliant determination, such as Chilcote had never worn in his life.  And with a calm gesture he released his hand.

“The greatest charm of woman is her imagination,” he said, quietly.  “Without it there would be no color in life; we would come into and drop out of it with the same uninteresting tone of drab reality.”  He paused and smiled again.

At his smile, Lillian involuntarily drew back, the color deepening in her cheeks.  “Why do you say that?” she asked.

He lifted his head.  With each moment he felt more certain of himself.  “Because that is my attitude,” he said.  “As a man I admire your imagination, but as a man I fail to follow your reasoning.”

The words and the tone both stung her.  “Do you realize the position?” she asked, sharply.  “Do you realize that, whatever your plans are, I can spoil them?”

Loder still met her eyes.  “I realize nothing of the sort,” he said.

“Then you admit that you are not Jack Chilcote?”

“I neither deny nor admit.  My identity is obvious.  I can get twenty men to swear to it at any moment that you like.  The fact that I haven’t worn rings till now will scarcely interest them.”

“But you do admit—­to me, that you are not Jack?”

“I deny nothing—­and admit nothing.  I still offer my congratulations.”

“Upon what?”

“The same possession—­your imagination.”

Lillian stamped her foot.  Then, by a quick effort, she conquered her temper.  “Prove me to be wrong!” she said, with a fresh touch of excitement.  “Take off your rings and let me see your hand.”

With a deliberate gesture Loder put his hand behind his back.  “I never gratify childish curiosity,” he said, with another smile.