Freddie Stickney flushed slightly. This confounded Yank was evidently presuming to pull his leg. Freddie contented himself with a reiteration of his former remark:
“Well, it’s gone, at any rate.”
As he said it, his eyes swept the American’s face, and for an instant he seemed to catch a glimpse of something going on behind the mask. Wraxall was evidently perturbed and his eyes showed that he was thinking hard, though his face gave no clue to the subject which occupied him.
Freddie relapsed for a time into sulky silence, and Wraxall was able to continue his meal undisturbed. From time to time, Freddie’s beady eyes ranged round to the American’s face; but its set expression betrayed nothing to him. Freddie began to contrast the reception which Wraxall had given to his news with the outburst of sympathy for the Dangerfields which had come from Douglas and the girls.
“Something very fishy about this fellow,” he thought to himself. “One would almost think it wasn’t news to him at all. And why is he so anxious to make out that it isn’t a case of theft? That’s very rum.”
Freddie chewed the cud of this idea for a minute or two; but at last, feeling the lack of conversation to be too great a strain, he tried another opening.
“Very few at breakfast to-day.”
The American glanced round the empty table, but made no audible comment.
“Three of the party went off first thing this morning,” Freddie continued. “Mrs. Brent’s away in the Kestrel. Didn’t wait to say good-bye to me.”
At last a gleam of interest crossed the American’s face.