Clare looked at him, and the beautiful Irish eyes, their deep blue framed by thick dark lashes, were sympathetic and soft. She was thinking of the abominable stories Ancram had been spreading about this man; how he had been hounded out of his county for cowardice, and so on. She repeated—
“So that is why you are out here?”
“Of course,” he answered looking at her with mild astonishment. “Why else should I be?”
“Oh no. I hope you don’t think me very inquisitive, Mr Lamont. Why, it really seems as if I were trying to—to ‘pump’ you—isn’t that the word?”
“But such a thought never entered my head. Why should it?”
Clare felt uncomfortable. There was manifestly no answer to be made to this. So she said—
“By the way, who is this Mr Ancram? You knew him at home, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes. Slightly, and didn’t care for him at that. He turned up at my place here one night. Peters had picked him up in woeful plight down Pagadi way—and gave me the idea he had come to stay. I’ve nothing to say against the chap, mind, but I don’t care for him.”
Clare was no mischief-maker, still she could not help saying—
“Well, I don’t think he’s any friend of yours, from what I’ve heard.”