"Why, my dear Mr. Pinkerton, it's a terrible matter—an infamous affair! My friend here, Mr. Lyon, is quite nettled about it—I might say, quite cut up. You can see for yourself, sir, that it's wearing on him." This with a deprecating wave of his hand towards Lyon, who nervously gazed out of the window from under his shaggy brows.
I merely said that these things were sometimes a little wearing.
"But you see, Mr. Pinkerton, this is a peculiarly cruel case—a peculiarly cruel case. Hem! I know what is cruel in this respect, as I was once victimized by very much the same sort of a female, though she was much younger. Why, do you know, sir," and here the sympathetic Harcout's voice fell into a solemn murmur, "that my friend's beloved wife was scarcely at rest beneath the daisies when this Mrs. Winslow began worming herself into the confidence of my somewhat impressible friend here?"
I made no answer, and only took a memorandum of the facts developed, not forgetting Harcout's statement that he had once been victimized by very much the same sort of a female.
"She came to Rochester as a shining light among the exponents of our blessed faith——"
"And what may your religion be?" I asked.
"We believe in the constant communication between mortals and the occupants of the beautiful spirit home beyond the river."
"Exactly," said I, noticing the remarkable development at the back of their heads and about their mouths.