You have been burning paper, I see. “Forgive me,” he decided to say at last, and his voice had a little quiver of emotion, and he laid his hand on hers upon her knee. They laughed and talked and stared about them. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. She could not say who, not yet. Wait a second. The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. See? Nothing really. She seemed to have recovered herself as he returned, but rose as if she would go back to the saloon.
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