Sidney looked up suspiciously, but the little man’s face wore no expression beyond one of calm inquiry.
“No,” said he slowly, “everything is just as it was. I have heard nothing at all and my prospects are as bad as they can be.”
There was something about Sidney that disarmed suspicion, and Gimblet did not fail to be influenced by it. In vain he reflected that the young man was certainly refraining from telling him of Miss Turner’s telegram, and deliberately, since Gimblet had purposely reminded him of it by quoting words it actually contained. As he sat considering what should be his next move, the door opened, and Sir Gregory Aberhyn Jones was announced.
“Good morning, Mr. Gimblet. Have you any news for me? No, I see you have not; and there is none in Grosvenor Street, as you doubtless know. Ah, Sidney, how are you? This is a trying time for us all. I am glad to see you, very.” He shook hands warmly with the young man; and then, before Gimblet guessed what he would be at, the harm was done. “I’m more than glad to meet you, my dear boy,” Sir Gregory was declaring, “so as to be able to tell you that I don’t believe a word they may say against you. I’m positive you never had a hand in this black business, any more than I did myself. And all the Charks and beastly rags of newspapers in London shan’t convince me to the contrary.” Sir Gregory, still holding Joe by the hand, shook it up and down with extra and exaggerated heartiness.
Sidney wrenched it away.
“What the deuce are you talking about?” he exclaimed. “Who’s been saying things about me?”
“I tell you I don’t believe a word of it,” said Sir Gregory soothingly. “But you must have seen it in the papers. ‘It is believed,’ they say, ‘that a quarrel took place between Mrs. Vanderstein and a near relative, which has more to do with the unfortunate ladies’ disappearance than seems plain at first.’ You did quarrel with her, didn’t you? And Chark, her lawyer, you know, is taken with the idea; in fact, he’s been round telling me this morning that he’s ascertained for a fact that you’re infernally hard up, which would provide a motive, he says. Infernal nonsense, of course.”
“Infernal lies,” cried Sidney; “what the devil does anyone mean by suggesting such things? Do they imagine I’ve spirited away not only Aunt Ruth but Miss Turner too, and am holding them for ransom, or what? Or perhaps your friend Chark would rather think that I was given to poisoning my relations? If it comes to that, I’ll begin on him if he don’t look out. Infernal ass.”
He was furious. Gimblet, watching him with interest, wondered whether his face was so red from anger or from some other emotion.
Sir Gregory, for once, was silenced.