This time the score was mine,—he was puzzled.
‘I know not what you talk of.’
‘In that case, we’re equal,—I know not what you talk of either.’
His manner, for him, was childlike and bland.
‘What is it you do not know? This morning did I not say,—if you want me, then I come?’
‘I fancy I have some faint recollection of your being so good as to say something of the kind, but—where’s the application?’
‘Do you not feel for him the same as I?’
‘Who’s the him?’
‘Paul Lessingham.’
It was spoken quietly, but with a degree of—to put it gently—spitefulness which showed that at least the will to do the Apostle harm would not be lacking.