They met a few moments later in the corridor.
"I see you found your friends," said Stainton. At least temporarily, he had regained his self-control.
"My who? Oh, the Newberrys? Of course. Come over; you must meet them."
"The Newberrys?" Stainton looked a misapprehension.
"Yes, I told you, you know. Good old Preston Newberry and his wife."
"I thought," urged Stainton, "that I saw a girl——"
"Oh, that?" asked Holt, recollecting with some difficulty a person of such small importance. "That's their little Boston ward."
"What's her name?"
"Something or other. I forget. Stannard: that's it—Muriel Stannard. She's just out of her——"
He stopped and blinked, his narrow eyes directed at Stainton, who had lifted to his face a hand that visibly trembled.