"You!" cried O'Halloran, Miss O'Halloran, Marion, this time in greater surprise than before.
"Yes," said I. "I did it because I was very anxious to trace some one, and this appeared to be the way that was at once the most certain, and at the same time the least likely to excite suspicion."
"Suspicion?"
"Yes—for the one whom I wished to trace was a lady."
"A lady!" said O'Halloran. "Aha! you rogue, so that's what ye'er up to, is it? An' there isn't a word of truth in this about Verrier?"
"Yes, there is," said I, "He was really drowned, but I don't know his name, and Paul Terrier, and the disconsolate father, Pierre, are altogether imaginary names. But I'll tell you all about it."
"Be dad, an' I'd be glad if ye would, for this exorjium sthrikes me as the most schupindous bit of schamin that I've encounthered for a month of Sundays."
While I was saying this, the ladies did not utter a single syllable. But if they were silent, it was not from want of interest. Their eyes were fixed on mine as though they were bound to me by some powerful spell; their lips parted, and, in their intense eagerness to hear what it was that I had to say, they did not pretend to conceal their feelings. Miss O'Halloran was seated in an arm-chair. Her left arm leaned upon it, and her hand mechanically pressed her forehead as she devoured me with her gaze. Marion was seated on a common chair, and sat with one elbow on the table, her hands clasped tight, her body thrown slightly forward, and her eyes fixed on mine with an intensity of gaze that was really embarrassing.
And now all this convinced me that they must know all about it, and emboldened me to go on. Now was the time, I felt, to press my search —now or never.
So I went on—