“Gone away?” echoed Henderson, sharply, and the dusky flush faded from his face.
“Yes, he has gone for a week or so, I believe; abroad, I think, but he was rather vague about his movements.”
Henderson did not speak. Had he gone to May, he was thinking, with a sharp and bitter pang.
“By the by,” continued Mrs. Temple, “has anything ever been heard of that pretty girl, Miss Churchill, who ran away from home? You were one of her swains, were you not, Mr. Henderson?” And Mrs. Temple laughed and showed her white teeth.
“I knew them very well, at all events,” muttered Henderson, with downcast eyes.
“Oh, you were one of her many admirers, they told me,” said Mrs. Temple, with a smile. “Well, she certainly is pretty; such a fine complexion. John Temple called her beautiful; do you?”
“She is handsome,” said Henderson, hoarsely.
“Well, I am rather curious about her flight, or disappearance, or whatever it was. Will you call to-morrow at four o’clock and tell me all about it?”
“I know nothing,” began Henderson, but Mrs. Temple stopped him with a little wave of her driving whip.