“At any rate,” Harcutt remarked, “you will soon learn all that you care to know. You have inserted the thin end of the wedge. You have established a visiting acquaintance.”
Wolfenden flicked the end from his cigarette savagely.
“Nothing of the sort,” he declared. “They have not given me their address, or asked me to call. On the contrary, I was given very clearly to understand by Mr. Sabin that they were only travellers and desired no acquaintances. I know them, that is all; what the next step is to be I have not the faintest idea.”
Densham leaned over towards them. There was a strange light in his eyes—a peculiar, almost tremulous, earnestness in his tone.
“Why should there be any next step at all?” he said. “Let us all drop this ridiculous business. It has gone far enough. I have a presentiment—not altogether presentiment either, as it is based upon a certain knowledge. It is true that these are not ordinary people, and the girl is beautiful. But they are not of our lives! Let them pass out. Let us forget them.”
Harcutt shook his head.
“The man is too interesting to be forgotten or ignored,” he said. “I must know more about him, and before many days have passed.”
Densham turned to the younger man.
“At least, Wolfenden,” he said, “you will listen to reason. I tell you as a man of honour, and I think I may add as your friend, that you are only courting disappointment. The girl is not for you, or me, or any of us. If I dared tell you what I know, you would be the first to admit it yourself.”