He found himself answering her question automatically.
"What a strange question!" He was laughing—speaking lightly. "Of course, I know who you are."
"Yes," she said gravely, "you know that my name is Polly Wickes—but do you know anything about me?"
He came and stood a little closer to her.
"I think I know you." His voice had lost its lighter tone.
A little flood of colour came as she shook her head.
"Did guardy tell you anything about me on your trip down here?"
"No," he said.
"I didn't think he had," she said. "He has always been opposed to either of us saying anything about it to any one. Dear guardy! I know it is for my sake and that he believes it makes it easier for me, and generally it does; but—but sometimes it doesn't." She stopped and looked up suddenly. "But I do think it is more than likely that Mr. Marlin, in his queer way, has said something. Has he?"
"Look here," said Locke impulsively, "does it really matter—does it even matter at all? Mr. Marlin did say something, as a matter of fact—yesterday, down there at the boathouse, you know."