“You and Mr. Westenhanger came up by the same train, didn’t you, Miss Cressage?” asked Mrs. Dangerfield.
Westenhanger caught the question which Eileen had missed.
“Yes. I happened to run across Miss Cressage just as she was coming out of Starbeck, the jewellers. We had just time to get to the station.”
Freddie Stickney’s sharp ears caught the careless remark.
“Starbeck’s?” he said, lifting his voice to make it carry down the table. “That’s a convenient firm. They’ll give you a reasonable advance on any little bit of jewellery you don’t happen to need for a time. Sort of superior brand of West End Uncle, aren’t they? I’ve dealt with them once or twice myself and always found them generous.”
Freddie was quite shameless in money matters. But his deliberately pitched sentences reached Eileen Cressage’s ears; and Freddie, keenly on the look-out, noticed that the girl flushed uncomfortably.
“That shot went home,” he reflected, complacently. “One can always get the information one wants if one goes about it tactfully. She’s been doing a bit of quiet pawning this afternoon. That’s interesting. I wonder what she put away in store. She never wore any jewellery here.”
He ruminated on this problem for a time, keeping his sharp eyes on the girl’s face; but nothing further of interest fell into his net during the meal.
As they passed into the drawing-room after dinner, Mrs. Caistor Scorton picked up a telegram addressed to her which was lying in the hall. At the sight of it, Morchard’s face lighted up with interest and he examined her closely while she read it. He edged himself up to Eileen and put a question in a low voice:
“The Scorton’s got her telegram about your cheque. Is it all right?”