But Anthony explained to her that he wished to talk to Miss Exeter by himself. Antonia was disappointed. She had looked forward to being present when her uncle and the governess met again, but she adjusted herself as usual. "There's Mr. Albertson," she said. "I'll get him to come and sit with me while I have supper, and tell me stories of crime. He says there aren't any people like Sherlock Holmes, and that stories like that make it hard for real detectives. I suppose that's true, and yet it's horrid to face facts sometimes, isn't it, Uncle Anthony? It makes real life seem pretty dull sometimes." "Real life is not dull, Antonia," said her uncle, "take it from me." He watched her safely into a conversation with Mr. Albertson, and then, with his hands in his pockets, he sauntered down the steps, across the sand toward that rose-colored parasol. "Good afternoon, Miss Exeter," he said pleasantly. It had been kept a profound secret that Anthony was on his way home. The detectives had pointed out to Mrs. Conway that this was important--that if the woman knew she was about to be unmasked she might be goaded into sudden action--perhaps even into destroying the pearls. Hearing a strange voice calling her by name, Pearl came out of a trance into which the sunset and the sea had thrown her; glancing up from under her parasol, she saw at once that the speaker was Anthony Wood, and that he was exactly as she had imagined him. Seeing this, her heart gave a peculiar leap, and she beamed at him, more freely and wonderfully than she had ever beamed at anyone in the world. The look affected him--it would have affected any man; not just her beauty, for he had seen a good deal of beauty in his day, but this warm, generous honesty combined with beauty was something he had never seen. For a second or two they just looked at each other, Pearl beaming and beaming, and Wood looking at her, his face like a dark mask, but his turquoise eyes piercing her heart. She spoke first. She said in her queer deep voice, "Oh, I'm so glad you've come, Mr. Wood." "Are you?" he said. Of all the sentences with which she might have greeted him--sentences of excuse, of explanation, of appeal--he had never thought of her saying this, and saying it with all the manner of joy and relief. "Indeed I am," she went on, still on that same note. "Have you seen Antonia?" "Yes, I have." "And isn't she----" "We'll leave that for a moment," he said, for her effrontery began to annoy him, and his tone was curt. But instead of being alarmed or apologetic, she gave a little chuckle. "Oh, yes, I know," she said; "of course you want an explanation; only I wanted to be sure you'd seen my great achievement first, for it is an achievement, isn't it?" His eyebrows went up. "Do you really expect to be praised for anything you may have done," he said, "before you offer some explanation as to why you are here masquerading as Miss Exeter?"