“Don’t you like her look?” he asked suddenly.
“No, I don’t,” said the lunatic, turning himself about. “I have a prejudice against painted women: they put me in mind of Jezebel. Look at her hair. It’s awful.”
He went out in a whirlwind, and took his seat in the carriage, not a moment before it puffed off.
“Is he a lunatic?” I whispered to the Squire.
“He a lunatic!” he roared. “You must be a lunatic for asking it, Johnny. Why, that’s—that’s——”
Instead of saying any more, he showed me the card, and the name nearly took my breath away. He is a well-known London man, of science, talent, and position, and of world-wide fame.
“Well, I thought him nothing better than an escaped maniac.”
“Did you?” said the Squire. “Perhaps he returned the compliment on you, sir. But now—Johnny, who has got my pocket-book?”
As if it was any use asking me? As we turned back to the station-master’s room, the lady came into it, evidently resenting the search, although she had seemed to acquiesce in it so readily.
“They were rude, those women. It is the first time I ever had the misfortune to travel with men who carry pocket-books to lose them, and I hope it will be the last,” she pursued, in scornful passion, meant for the Squire. “One generally meets with gentlemen in a first-class carriage.”