“Then,” retorted Bayre, recovering his temper as he perceived a weapon for retaliation to his hand, “if he’s my uncle, the lady who was with him is, of course, the young wife we’ve heard about.”
Both he and Repton burst out laughing on seeing how Southerley’s face fell at the suggestion.
“Rubbish!” he said angrily. “She’s a girl, not a married woman. I’ll take my oath she’s not more than eighteen or nineteen. Besides—besides,” he began to stammer in his agitation, “she—she wore no wedding-ring!”
“Are you sure?”
“Q-q-quite sure. I—I should have noticed it. I noticed everything about her.”
“Then you wasted your time,” said Repton, mischievously, “for what attention she gave to either of you was distinctly given to Bayre. That points again to the man in the boat being his uncle; the lady recognised the type.”
“I don’t know what you can have seen to be so jolly cock-sure as to what she noticed,” remarked Southerley, in a tone of displeasure, “for you were not in sight when she was on the pier.”
“Not in your sight, because your eyes were so precious full of somebody else,” retorted Repton, cheerfully. “But you were in sight of me, anyhow. I was behind that boat.”
And he nodded in the direction of one of the small fishing-boats which had been hauled up on the shore close to the pier, so that the bows, protruding over the stone-work, had afforded a very good hiding-place.
“You must have had very good eyes to discern this intense admiration for Bayre in the lady!” said Southerley, growing loud in his scorn.