"None of your business," rejoined his aunt.
He looked up in slight surprise, recognised a condition of things which, on second thought, surprised him still more. Because his aunt had never before noticed his affairs—had not even commented on the Ledwith matter to him. He had always felt that she disliked him too thoroughly to care.
"I don't think I understood you," he said, watching her out of shifting eyes which protruded a trifle.
"I think you will understand me before I've done with you," returned his aunt, grimly. "It's a perfectly plain matter; you've the rest of the female community to chase if you choose. Go and chase 'em for all I care—hunt from here to Reno if you like!—but I have other plans for Strelsa Leeds. Do you understand? I've put my private mark on her. There's no room for yours."
Langly's gaze which had not met hers—and never met anybody's for more than a fraction of a second—shifted. He continued his attentions to his moustache; his eyes roved; he looked at but did not see a hundred things in a second.
"You don't know where she's gone?" he inquired with characteristic pertinacity and an indifference to what she had said, absolutely stony.
"Do you mean trouble for that girl?"
"I do not."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing."