She leant against the table, both hands behind her.
"Mr. Beale," she said, "will you give me straight-forward answers to a number of plain questions?"
He nodded.
"If I can," he said.
"Is the Herr Professor a friend of yours?"
"No—I know him and in a way I am sorry for him. He is a German who pretends to be Russian. Immensely poor and unprepossessing to a painful degree, but a very clever scientist. In fact, a truly great analytical chemist who ought to be holding a good position. He told me that he had the best qualifications, and I quite believe him, but that his physical infirmities, his very freakishness had ruined him."
Her eyes softened with pity—the pity of the strong for the weak, of the beautiful for the hideous.
"If that is true" she began, and his chin went up. "I beg your pardon, I know it is true. It is tragic, but—did you know him before you met him in my room?"
He hesitated.
"I knew him both by repute and by sight," he said. "I knew the work he was engaged on and I guessed why he was engaged. But I had never spoken to him."
"Thank you—now for question number two. You needn't answer unless you wish."
"I shan't," he said.
"That's frank, anyway. Now tell me, Mr. Beale, what is all this mystery about? What is the Green Rust? Why do you pretend to be a—a drunkard when you're not one?" (It needed some boldness to say this, and she flushed with the effort to shape the sentence.) "Why are you always around so providentially when you're needed, and," here she smiled (as he thought) deliciously, "why weren't you round yesterday, when I was nearly arrested for theft?"
He was back on the edge of the table, evidently his favourite resting-place, she thought, and he ticked her questions off on his fingers.
"Question number one cannot be answered. Question number two, why do I pretend to be a—a drunkard?" he
