"So it is reported," William replied. "That implies sore straits, and they are not the sort of people, by all accounts, to ask for help."
"Would die sooner," Budda replied laconically.
"Then perhaps they're dead," William said, with a little gasp. "It must be terrible hard for people who have known better days."
Amos Bice looked up with a start when Budda and William Menire entered his small office.
"I have come to inquire," Budda began, quite ignoring his companion, "if you know anything about—well, about what has become of the Penlogans?"
"Well, I do—of course," he said, slowly and reflectively; though why he should have added "of course" was not quite clear.
William began to breathe a little more freely. Budda looked disappointed. Budda revelled in mysteries, and when a mystery was cleared up all the interest was taken out of it.
"Then you know where they are?" Budda questioned shortly.
"I know where the mother is—I am not so sure of the daughter. But naturally it is not a matter that I care to talk about, particularly as they did not wish their doings to be the subject of common gossip."
"May I ask why you do not care to talk about them?" Budda questioned severely.