The other laughed again, still more unpleasantly.
“Meaning that you want me out of the country,” he said.
It was Lamont’s turn to stare.
“I’m very dense,” he said, “but for the life of me I can’t see what the devil interest your being in the country or out of it can have for me.”
“We were at Courtland together,” rejoined Ancram meaningly.
“A remarkable coincidence no doubt. Still—it doesn’t explain anything.”
“I thought perhaps you might find it awkward—er—anyone being here who was—er—there at that time.”
“Then like many another you have proved ‘thought’ a desperately unreliable prompter. Candidly, my dear fellow, since you put it that way, I don’t care a twopenny damn whether you are in this country or in any other. Now?”
Lamont spoke quickly and was fast losing his temper. He pulled himself up with a sort of gulping effort. Ancram, noting this, could hardly suppress the sneer which rose to his face, for he read it entirely wrong.
“That fetched him,” he was thinking to himself. “He’s funking now. He’s probably got another girl out here, and he’s afraid I’ll blab about the white feather business. All right, my good friend Lamont. I’ve got you under my thumb, as I intended, and you’ll have to put me in the way of something good—or—that little story will come in handy. It’ll bear some touching up, too.”