"Ah, I remember you now," Merefleet said. "You came as Ralph Warrender's guest to a club dinner in New York. Am I right?"
"Perfectly," said Seton. "You were the guest of the evening. You made a good speech, I remember. You were looking horribly ill. I suppose that is how I came to notice you particularly."
"I was ill," said Merefleet, "or I should have been out of New York before that dinner came off. I always detested the place. And Warrender would have done far better in my place."
"I am not an admirer of Warrender," said Seton bluntly.
Merefleet made no comment. He was never very free in the statement of his opinion.
"The railway accident in which his wife was killed took place immediately after that dinner, I believe?" he observed presently. "I remember hearing of it when I was recovering."
"It was a shocking thing—that accident," said Seton thoughtfully. "It's odd that Americans always manage to do that sort of thing on such a gigantic scale."
"They do everything on a gigantic scale," said Merefleet. "What became of Warrender afterwards? It was an awful business for him."
"I don't know anything about him," Seton answered, with a brevity that seemed to betray lack of interest. "He was no friend of mine, though I chanced to be his guest on that occasion. I was distantly connected with his wife, and I inherited some of her money at her death. She was a rich woman, as you probably know."
"So I heard. But I have never found New York gossip particularly attractive."