She could believe nothing else now except that he had been watching her—before he struck.
"What are ypu doing here, and what are those clothes you've got in your hands?" he rasped out.
She could only fence for time in the meager hope that some loophole would present itself. She forced an assumed defiance into her tones and manner, that was in keeping with the sort of armed truce, which, from her first meeting with Danglar, she had inaugurated as a barrier between them.
"You have asked me two questions," she said tartly. "Which one do you want me to answer first?"
"Look here," he snapped, "you cut that out! There's one or two things need explaining—see? What are those clothes?"
Her wits! Perhaps he did not know as much as she was afraid he did! She seemed to have become abnormally contained, her mind abnormally acute and active. It was not likely that the woman, his wife, whom he believed she was, had worn her own clothes in his presence since the day, some two years ago, when she had adopted the disguise of Gypsy Nan; and she, Rhoda Gray, remembered that on the night Gypsy Nan, re-assuming her true personality, had gone to the hospital, the woman's clothes, like these she held now, had been of dark material. It was not likely that a man would be able to differentiate between those clothes and the clothes of the White Moll, especially as the latter hung folded in her hands now, and even though he had seen them on her at the Silver Sphinx last night.
"What clothes do you suppose they are but my own?—though I haven't had a chance to wear them much lately!" she countered crisply.
He scowled at her speculatively.
