Chris was up betimes in the morning and out on the terrace. She felt no further uneasiness on the score of the disguise now. Henson was certain to be inquisitive, it was part of his nature, but he was not going to learn anything. Chris smiled as she saw Henson lumbering towards her. He seemed all the better for his night's rest.
"The rose blooms early here," he said, gallantly. "Let me express the hope that you have quite forgiven me for the fright I gave you last night."
"I guess I don't recollect the fright," Chris drawled. "And if there was any fright I calculate it was on the other side. And how are you this morning? You look as if you had been in the wars. Got some trouble with your throat, or what?"
"A slight operation," Henson said, airily. "I have been speaking too much in public lately and a little something had to be removed. I am much better."
The ready lie tripped off his tongue. Chris smiled slightly.
"Do you know, you remind me very much of somebody," he went on. "And yet I don't know why, because you are quite different. Lord Littimer tells me you are an American."
"The Stars and Stripes," Chris laughed. "I guess our nation is the first on earth. Now, if you happen to know anything about Boston—"
"I never was in Boston in my life," Henson replied, hastily. The name seemed to render him uneasy. "Have you been in England very long?"
Chris replied that she was enjoying England for the first time. But she was not there to answer questions, her rôle was to ask them. But she was dealing with a past-master in the art of gleaning information, and Henson was getting on her nerves. She gave a little cry of pleasure as a magnificent specimen of a bloodhound came trotting down the terrace and paused in friendly fashion before her.
"What a lovely dog," she exclaimed. "Do you like dogs, Mr. Henson?"