“No,” I replied, feeling uncomfortable to be once more on this dangerous ground, although on my guard, and prepared to bite my tongue off rather than play my friend false again.
Mr Smith assumed as complete an air of unconcern as he could as he asked, “It’s a strange question, but do you know anything about them?”
I would have given a good deal to be out of that room. There was something in Mr Smith’s voice and manner and frightened eyes which made the question, coming from him, very different from the same inquiry flippantly thrown out by one of my old comrades. And yet I would not—I could not—answer it.
“I can’t say,” I replied, as shortly as possible, and rising at the same time to leave the room.
He prevented me by a quick gesture, which almost ordered me not to go, and I resumed my seat.
“You wonder why I ask the question?” said he, slowly.
“I think,” said I, “it would be best to ask it of Jack himself.”
Mr Smith said nothing, but sat brooding silently for a minute. Then he said, in a tone which sounded as if he was asking the question of himself rather than me, “Who is the Mrs Shield he writes to?”
He spoke so queerly and looked so strangely that I half wondered whether he was not wandering in his mind.
“Please,” said I, “do not ask me these questions. What is the matter with you, Mr Smith?”