“Which wumman?” asked Mac, taking up a pebble from the path just by the veranda, and shying it at one of the hills of the landscape garden.
“Girl, I meant; you remember the girl I told you of?”
“Oh ay; the lass that flung you ower board—what of her?”
“She’s here with her husband.”
“Whaur?” said Mac, turning his head as though he fancied Jane and her spouse were camping out in the garden.
“She’s staying at the Nagasaki Hotel with her husband.”
“Whoat’s their names?”
“Du Telle.”
Mac doubled himself up for a moment, alleging for reason a touch of the stomach-ache, as a matter of fact it was a touch of internal laughter.
The day before yesterday he had found the newly-arrived George du Telle in the smoke-room of the Nagasaki Hotel, stood him drinks, and conducted him to Danjuro.