Dorothy nodded and looked gravely into the teapot. "And I saw Mr. Gray on my way from the station!" she said.
"Ah, just so. You did not meet any of the others?"
"Yes, I think I did," she replied, with a great show of candor. "Of course I saw Mr. Bigham by the Church Club and Mr. Brune in Wych Street."
"Brune is the culprit, I expect. I do not think it would be Charles Emerson's fault, because he is unwell."
"Unwell!" cried the girl, impulsively. "Indeed, he is quite ill; I never saw any one look so bad."
"Oh! and where may you have seen him?" asked the Archdeacon, stopping suddenly in his promenade of the room, and facing her.
Dorothy bit her tongue to punish it. There is nothing so dangerous as a half-confidence. It so often leads, will-he-nill-he, to a whole one. "He got into the train at Bromfield. He had walked out there," she said, meekly. Surprisingly meekly for her.
"Quite so. And may I ask whereabouts you met his brother?"
"Met his brother?"
"Yes, my dear," said the Archdeacon, suavely. "Met his brother, Mr. Philip Emerson?"