"They've got my address and there are the directories," he continued. "The funny part of it is, too, that I heard from Mrs. Bundercombe a week or so ago, and she never said a word about any of them coming over."
"They seem to have made their minds up all of a sudden," I explained.
"They spoke of it as quite a flying trip."
Reggie coughed and stared for a moment at the end of his boot.
"Can't understand it at all!" he repeated. "Devilish queer thing, anyway!
I say, Paul, you're sure it's all right, I suppose?"
"All right? What do you mean?"
"Between you and me," he went on—"don't give it away outside this room, you know—but there have been rumors going about concerning an American and his pretty daughter over here—regular wrong 'uns! They've been up to all sorts of tricks and only kept out of prison by a fluke."
"You're not associating these people, whoever they may be, with Mr. and
Miss Bundercombe?" I asked sternly.
Reggie gazed once more at the point of his boot.
"The thing is," he remarked, "are your friends Mr. and Miss Bundercombe at all?"
"Don't talk rot!"