His voice hardly rose above a whisper; every word seemed to be wrung from him.
"But surely there is something in it," Forrester persisted. "Was your friend a servant in your father's house? You did not invent that?"
The lad cast a look at his companion that might have been interpreted as terror or anxiety. The elder man did not return the glance, but stood beside him with a mien suggesting patient forbearance or even absence of mind.
"I do not know what I said," the young man replied slowly, like one talking in his sleep. "I was excited after the great peril I had escaped, my mind was troubled, and my tongue spoke foolishness. Pardon me, I pray you."
Seeing that nothing more was to be got out of the lad, Forrester turned away with his companions.
"There's some mystery here," he said, when they were out of earshot. "What's the matter, Bob?" he asked, noticing a strange look in Jackson's face.
"I don't know: I feel as if this were all a dream--a queer sort of fuzzy feeling in my head."
"I feel puzzled enough," said Forrester. "Why should the fellow make out that he was telling lies? It looks as if he's mortally afraid of the other man, but I can't make it out, for the chap doesn't know English, and wouldn't understand, whatever was said. What do you say, Mac?"
"There's no call to say anything," Mackenzie replied.
"There's the canny Scot," Forrester said with a laugh. "You'll think all the more, I suppose."