“Whom do you mean?”
Magda spoke mechanically. A faint colour crept up under her white skin, and she avoided her godmother’s keen gaze.
“That charming artist-man—Michael Quarrington.”
“Has—he left England?” Magda’s throat felt suddenly parched. Then with an effort she went on: “You’re surely not going to put the entire steamship’s passenger list down to me, Marraine?”
“Only those names for which I happen to know you’re responsible.”
“You don’t know about Saint Mi—about Mr. Quarrington. It’s mere guesswork on your part.”
“Most of the things we really know in life are mere guesswork,” replied Lady Arabella sagely. “But in this case——”
“Yes. In this case?”
There was a long pause. Then Lady Arabella answered slowly:
“In this case I’m speaking from first-hand information.”