The wretched man groaned heavily, but uttered no word of reply.
“I wish that great chemical friend of yours, papa,—the wonderful Dr. Layton,—had turned his marvellous mind to the invention of invisible fire. I am dying for a cigar now, and I am afraid to light one.”
“Don't think of it, for mercy's sake!” broke in Trover.
“Pray calm yourself, I have not the slightest fancy for being overtaken by this interesting party, nor do I think papa has either,—not that our meeting could have any consequence beyond mere unpleasantness. If they should come up with us, I am as ready to denounce the deceitful Mr. Trover as any of them.”
“This is very poor jesting, I must say,” muttered he, angrily.
“You'll find it, perhaps, a very serious earnest if we're caught.”
“Come, come, Loo, forgive him; he certainly meant all for the best. I 'm sure you did, Trover,” said old Holmes, with the blandest of voices.
“Why, what on earth do you mean?” cried he. “You are just as deep in the plot as I am. But for you, how should I have known about Hawke's having any property in America, or that he had any heir to it?”
“I am not naturally suspicious, Trover,” said she, with mock gravity, “but I declare I begin to believe you are a bad man,—a very bad man!”
“I hope and trust not, Loo,” said old Holmes, fervently; “I really hope not.”