“Where were you staying at Vashtic?” he interrupted.
“What can that matter. Mr. Trevor of London——”
“Ah! You refuse to answer?” He turned away and beckoned to a companion, with whom he conferred, nodding toward us. Then turned to me again. “How did you get here?”
“I started in a caleche but the wheel came off and we had to finish the journey in this fashion.”
“Which wheel?”
“The left hind wheel.”
“Whose carriage was it?”
“I hired it from Gorlas Malstrom.” My inventive faculty for names was getting strained.
“Where does he live?”
“At Vashtic close to the hotel.”