‘Sir Runan Errand,’ said one of them; ‘where he’s gone under. A rare bad lot he was.’
‘Murdered,’ replied the other. ‘Nothing ever found of him but his hat.’
‘What a rum go!’ replied the other.
I looked at Philippa. She had heard all. I saw her dark brow contract in anguish. She was beating her breast furiously—her habit in moments of agitation.
Then I seem to remember that I and the two hidalgos bore Philippa to a couch in the patio, while I smiled and smiled and talked of the heat of the weather!
When Philippa came back to herself, she looked at me with her wondrous eyes and said,—
‘Basil; tell me the square truth, honest Injun! What had I been up to that night?’