For the first time Pagett seemed to recognize that I was asking him a question. His mind detached itself from the peculiarities of Sir Eustace and his own justification and came to rest on me.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Beddingfeld,” he said stiffly, “but I fail to see your concern in the matter.”

He was back in the train now, leaning down to speak to me. I felt desperate. What could one do with a man like that?

“Of course, if it’s so dreadful that you’d be ashamed to speak of it to me⁠ ⁠…” I began spitefully.

At last I had found the right stop. Pagett stiffened and flushed.

“Dreadful? Ashamed? I don’t understand you.”

“Then tell me.”

In three short sentences he told me. At last I knew Pagett’s secret! It was not in the least what I expected.