“To the best of my belief,” she said, with quiet dignity, “I have never seen either of you before in my life. The fact is I was so glad to see you again that it never occurred to me that a little discretion might be advisable. Then for a time she sat very still. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. A dozen words, and he saw Enschede as clearly as though he stood hard by in the flesh. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. However, it would only be robbing the hangman of his dues. She put a hand to the lad’s cold cheek and choked on a sob. All the same, I don’t admit it.
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