“Was it outside Lord Chislehurst’s house, on the night of the great ball he gave a year ago?” he asked sharply.
But there was no sign of confusion or intelligence on Cecil Jones’ face.
“Lord Chislehurst’s!” he echoed stupidly. “A year ago! I don’t know where Lord Chislehurst’s is. And I don’t think I was in England a year ago.”
Frustrated, Gerard decided to make a fresh attempt to take him by surprise.
“I daresay I’m wrong,” he said. “I’m not very good at remembering faces. But you do remind me of a man I met a few days ago, coming out of a police-station.”
The words could be taken as insulting, but Cecil Jones was impervious to insult.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in a police-station,” he said simply.
“Not with Miss Davison?”
Cecil Jones turned round so that he could stare blankly into his questioner’s face.
“Miss Davison!” echoed he. “Do you mean the lady I was introduced to to-night?”