"What things? Rayburn's got a scar, I know—but a scar can be faked easily enough. He's the right height and build. What's the description of a head with which you pulverized them at Scotland Yard?"
I trembled. Suzanne was a well-educated, well-read woman, but I prayed that she might not be conversant with technical terms of anthropology.
"Dolichocephalic," I said lightly.
Suzanne looked doubtful.
"Was that it?"
"Yes, Long-headed, you know. A head whose width is less than 75 per cent. of its length," I explained fluently.
There was a pause. I was just beginning to breathe freely when Suzanne said suddenly:
"What's the opposite?"
"What do you mean—the opposite?"
"Well, there must be an opposite. What do you call the heads whose breadth is more than 75 per cent. of their length."
"Brachycephalic," I murmured unwillingly.
"That's it. I thought that was what you said."
"Did I? It was a slip of the tongue. I meant dolichocephalic," I said with all the assurance I could muster.
Suzanne looked at me searchingly. Then she laughed.
"You lie very well, Gipsy girl. But it will save time and trouble now if you tell me all about it."
"There's nothing to tell," I said unwillingly.
"Isn't there?" said Suzanne gently.
"I suppose I shall have to tell you," I said slowly. "I'm not ashamed of it. You can't be ashamed of something that just—happens to you. That's what he did. He was detestable—rude and ungrateful—but that I think I understand. It's like a dog that's been chained up—or badly treated—it'll bite anybody. That's what he was like—bitter and snarling. I don't know why I care—
