since entering the room, he smiled; then in silence for a time
regarded her steadfastly, thinking.

So he resembled this burglar, Anisty, strongly enough to be
mistaken for him--eh? Plainly enough the girl believed him to be
Anisty.... Well, and why not? Why shouldn't he be Anisty for the
time being, if it suited his purpose so to masquerade?

It might possibly suit his purpose. He thought his position one
uncommonly difficult. As Maitland, he had on his hands a female
thief, a hardened character, a common malefactor (strange that he
got so little relish of the terms!), caught red-handed; as
Maitland, his duty was to hand her over to the law, to be dealt
with as--what she was. Yet, even while these considerations were
urging themselves upon him, he knew his eyes appraised her with
open admiration and interest. She stood before him, slight,
delicate, pretty, appealing in her ingenuous candor; and at his
mercy. How could he bring himself to deal with her as he might
with--well, Anisty himself? She was a woman, he a gentleman.

As Anisty, however,--if he chose to assume that expert's identity
for the nonce,--he would be placed at once on a plane of equality
with the girl; from a fellow of her craft she could hardly refuse
attentions. As Anisty, he would put himself in a position to earn
her friendship, to gain--perhaps--her confidence, to learn
something of her necessities, to aid and protect her from the
consequences of her misdeeds; possibly--to sum up--to divert her
footsteps to the paths of a calling less hazardous and more
honorable.