“And he seemed very hard at work. I caught him looking at me once or twice.”
“Yes? How did he look?”
“He just looked at me—that was all. Good Lord! what do you want—”
“And there was nothing else—absolutely nothing else?”
“Absolutely nothing else.”
“He didn’t complain of … of anything?”
“Lord! Oh, yes; he did say something about a headache.”
“Ah!” (The old man leaned forward.) “A headache? What kind?”
“Back of his head.”
The old man sat back with pursed lips.
“Did he talk about last night?” he went on again suddenly.
“Not a word.”
“Ah!”
Mr. Morton burst into a rude uproarious laugh.
“Upon my word!” he said. “I think, Cathcart, you’re the most amazingly—”
The other held up a gloved hand in deprecation; but he did not seem at all ruffled.
“Yes, yes; we can take all that as said. … I’m accustomed to it, my dear fellow. Well, I saw Miss Deronnais, as I told you I should in my note. … You’re quite right about her.”