Then, slowly, his expression changed.

Beneath the well-fed, debonair mask of the clubman about town, other lines appeared--lines of avarice and calculation--wolf-marks, betokening the craft and petty ruthlessness of the small soul within the gentlemanly shell.

His eyes took on a shifty, uncertain stare--they no longer looked at Dale--their gaze seemed turned inward, beholding a visioned treasure, a glittering pile of gold.

And yet, the change in his look was not so pronounced as to give Dale pause--she felt a vague uneasiness steal over her, true--but it would have taken a shrewd and long-experienced woman of the world to read the secret behind Fleming's eyes at first glance--and Dale, for all her courage and common sense, was a young and headstrong girl.
She watched him, puzzled, wondering why he made no comment on her last statement.
"Do you know where there are any blue-prints of the house ?" she asked at last.
An odd light glittered in Fleming's eyes for a moment.

Then it vanished--he held himself in check--the casual idler again.
"Blue-prints ?" He seemed to think it over.