He was busy, he told me, busy about many things; and his manner was mystery itself. Yet even a conspirator is human, and evidently he had other interests in London besides our plot. From one or two sighs and tender allusions I shrewdly guessed the nature of these.
“You are not in love?” he asked me, suddenly.
“In love!” I exclaimed, in astonishment, for his previous sentence, though uttered with a melancholy air, had referred to the merits of a new rifle.
“In love with a dark lady?”
I started. Could he refer to Kate? Yes, of course, now I come to think of it, he or his agents must have seen us together.
“No, Marquis, I give you my word I am not in love either with black or brown,” I answered, gayly.
“I am glad, my dear friend,” he replied, “for I would not do you an injury.”
“An injury?” I exclaimed, with a laugh. “Would you be my rival?”
“No, no,” he said, though with some confusion. “I meant, my friend, that I would not like to tear you from her.”
“The conspirator must conspire,” I said, with a smile.