She remembered her own first
convinced recognition of the eyes that had looked at her in
the doorway of her sister's house; and, last of all, she
remembered Chilcote's unaccountable avoidance of the same
subject of likenesses when she had mentioned it yesterday
driving through the Park--and with it his unnecessarily curt
repudiation of his former opinions. She reviewed each item,
then she raised her head slowly and looked at Loder.
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.
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