“Perhaps you can tell me what the present Mr. Temple Barholm knew of him—how much he knew?”
“I told him the whole story the first time we took tea together,” Miss Alicia replied; and, between her recollection of that strangely happy afternoon and her wonder at its connection with the present moment, she began to feel timid and uncertain.
“How did it seem to impress him?”
She remembered it all so well—his queer, dear New York way of expressing his warm-hearted indignation at the cruelty of what had happened.
“Oh, he was very much excited. He was so sorry for him. He wanted to know everything about him. He asked me what he looked like.”
“Oh!” said Palford. “He wanted to know that?”
“He was so full of sympathy,” she replied, her explanation gaining warmth. “When I told him that the picture of Miles Hugo in the gallery was said to look like Jem as a boy, he wanted very much to see it. Afterward we went and saw it together. I shall always remember how he stood and looked at it. Most young men would not have cared. But he always had such a touching interest in poor Jem.”
“You mean that he asked questions about him—about his death, and so forth?” was Mr. Palford's inquiry.
“About all that concerned him. He was interested especially in his looks and manner of speaking and personality, so to speak. And in the awful accident which ended his life, though he would not let me talk about that after he had asked his first questions.”
“What kind of questions?” suggested Grimby.