"You knew them in America?" she asked.
"Of course I knew about them. I was hardly acquainted personally."
It was his tone rather than his words that lent an unfavourable colour to the remark, but the implication was not lost on the Bishop's sister. Here at last was a man who could give her the information she was most anxious to obtain.
"I should have supposed," she ventured, "that you'd have known such very intimate friends of Cecil's as these appear to be."
"Oh, no," he returned. "New York's a big place. I dare say you know much more about them than I do."
"I know nothing!" she burst out. "Strange as it may appear to you, my nephew has never told me one word concerning his guests, though I'm expected to receive them under my—his father's roof and introduce them to my friends."
"I see," replied Marchmont cautiously. "Cecil should have trusted to your excellent discrimination and judgment, unless—" and here he paused.
The position required consideration. It was easy enough to tell her about these people. Merely to say that they were an itinerant company of actors and actresses would be sufficient to ensure them a speedy congé from Blanford. But was it wise to do this? Did he want them to go? A hasty action is often like a boomerang. It returns on the toes of the person who thoughtlessly launches it in flight. No, on the whole they had better remain, he told himself. The palace would form an excellent background for the sensational exposure he hoped to make. If he could only get the Bishop into a corner, he would be quite satisfied.
"Well, what?" she demanded sharply, impatient at his unfinished sentence.
"Unless," he continued, hedging carefully—"unless your nephew felt that it was quite sufficient to have explained things to his father. Doubtless the Bishop knows all about his son's friends."