I laugh with insulting triumph. "Well, that is a bad hit! What a pity that you did not fix upon some one else! I have once or twice suspected you of drawing the long bow—now I am sure of it! As it happens, I have just come from Mrs. Huntley, and she knew no more about it than the babe unborn!"
I am looking him full in the face, but, to my surprise, I cannot detect the expression of confusion and defeat which I anticipate. There is only the old white-anger look that I have such a happy knack of calling up on his features.
"I am a consummate liar!" he says, quietly, though his eyes flash. "Every one knows that; but, all the same, she did tell me."
"I do not believe a word of it!" cry I, in a fury.
He makes no answer, but, lifting his hat, begins to walk quickly away. For a hundred yards I allow him to go unrecalled; then, as I note his quickly-diminishing figure and the heavy mists beginning to fold him, my resolution fails me; I take to my heels and scamper after him.
"Stop!" say I, panting as I come up with him, "I dare say—perhaps—you thought you were speaking truth!—there must, must be some mistake!"
He does not answer, but still walks quickly on.
"Tell me!" cry I, posting on alongside of him, breathless and distressed—"when was it? where did you hear it? how long ago?"
"I never heard it?"
"Yes, you did," cry I, passionately, asseverating what I have so lately and passionately denied. "You know you did; but when was it? how was it? where was it?"