“Ah,” said I, carelessly, “I think I know who he is!”
“Who!” cried Thornton, eagerly, and utterly off his guard.
“And yet,” I pursued, without noticing the interruption, “it scarcely can be—the colour of the hair is so very different.”
Thornton again appeared to relapse into his recollections. “War—Warbur—ah, I have it now!” cried he, “Warburton—that’s it—that’s the name—is it the one you supposed, Mr. Pelham?”
“No,” said I, apparently perfectly satisfied. “I was quite mistaken. Good morning, I did not think it was so late. On Sunday, then, Mr. Thornton—au plaisir!”
“A d—d cunning dog!” said I to myself, as I left the apartments. “However, on peut-etre trop fin. I shall have him yet.”
The surest way to make a dupe is to let your victim suppose you are his.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Voila de l’erudition.—Les Femmes Savantes.