I couldn't tell her what had made me think of it. I couldn't tell her that I had tracked her down through Jevons. I was going to keep him out of it, if she would only let me. But she wouldn't.
"I suppose," she meditated gently, "he must have told you."
I answered quite sternly this time, to impress on her the propriety of keeping Jevons out of it:
"He didn't tell me anything."
"Then"—she was still puzzled—"what made you come?"
"You."
"Me?"
"Your brother, if you like."
"He should have come himself."
"That," I said, "is what I'm trying to prevent. He doesn't know you're here. I want to get you back to England before he does know. Besides—he's sailing for India next week."