“Crispin,” she said, “I want to ask you a question. There is a thing which some people call Free Trade, and other people call smuggling. Which do you call it?”
Crispin, who was holding the poker in his hand, stopped short in his work, and remained for a few seconds quite still, without looking at her. Then he answered in a very quiet manner, and went on making up the fire.
“Smuggling, of course. And, what did your friend of the journey call it?”
He suddenly turned as he spoke, and under the piercing gaze which he directed upon her, Freda fancied that all her little girlish fancies and secrets were laid bare to his eyes.
“He called it smuggling too,” she answered.
“And what was his name?”
Freda hesitated. Such a hard, disagreeable tone seemed suddenly to be heard in Crispin’s voice. He repeated the question.
“His name is John Thurley.”
Without asking her any more questions, seeming, in fact, to become suddenly unconscious of her presence, Crispin abruptly left her to herself.