“I will be home, Richard.”
Anxiously did Richard and Barbara consult that day, Miss Carlyle of course putting in her word. Over and over again did Barbara ask the particulars of the slight interviews Richard had had with Thorn; over and over again did she openly speculate upon what his name really was. “If you could but discover some one whom he knows, and inquire it,” she exclaimed.
“I have seen him with one person, but I can’t inquire of him. They are too thick together, he and Thorn, and are birds of a feather also, I suspect. Great swells both.”
“Oh, Richard don’t use those expressions. They are unsuited to a gentleman.”
Richard laughed bitterly. “A gentleman?”
“Who is it you have seen Thorn with?” inquired Barbara.
“Sir Francis Levison,” replied Richard, glancing at Miss Carlyle, who drew in her lips ominously.
“With whom?” uttered Barbara, betraying complete astonishment. “Do you know Sir Francis Levison?”
“Oh, yes, I know him. Nearly the only man about town that I do know.”
Barbara seemed lost in a puzzled reverie, and it was some time before she aroused herself from it.