“I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off. He seemed happy with her, finding her proper and seemly. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. “Showtime!” Martin cried.
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