“Oh, yes, for me, too.”
Cleborne folded his arms, crossed one leg over the other, and blew a long cloud of smoke. “Look here, Mr. Fessenden,” he said, “that’s what I want to speak to you about—Maryland attractions.” He spoke with evident embarrassment. “May Belle—Miss Cresap—and I saw you yesterday, sitting on the wall at the end of the lane to White Cottage.”
“Hum! You did?”
“Yes. We were out for an early morning walk. Of course, then, we know you didn’t go to Baltimore—not on the morning train, at any rate.”
“Well?”
Impatience showed in Fessenden’s tone, and the other went on quickly: “We were out for a stroll again this evening, and—you may think it’s none of my business, but we saw her. She was at the window as we passed the house.”
“You seem to be fond of walking.”
“It was entirely an accident both times. But it won’t do, Mr. Fessenden.”
“May I ask what won’t do?”
“I don’t want to be impertinent, sir—you’re an older man than I—but, of course, it’s easy enough to guess that you’ve been going over to White Cottage because she’s there. Isn’t that so?”