And I asked him that night. Having heard him come into his room between eight and nine o’clock, I marched in boldly, bearding him without beating about the bush.
“I say, old Stephen, what have you been saying to Regina about me?”
His hat had been thrown on the table; his arms were outstretched in the act of taking off his overcoat.
He repeated my question as if he didn’t understand it.
“What have I been saying to Regina about you? Why, nothing—much.”
“Nothing much; that means something. What the deuce do you mean by the indirect method?”
“I haven’t spoken of an indirect method.”
“No; but she has!”
“Oh, I see.”