"Nonsense; you can't fool me in that fashion. You've been keenly watching everything—eager to find out all you can. What of Savell?"
"He seems much broken and changed," I replied reluctantly.
"Bah!—he's a fool—and a whining fool at that," he exclaimed violently. "He's no good to himself or any one else; he muddles himself with drink night after night; one of these days he'll go off suddenly—snuffed out like a candle in a draught. What of the others?"
"The—others?" I looked up at him stupidly.
"Well, the other, if you like," he retorted. "The child—Barbara. What of her?"
"She is very beautiful—and very sweet—and kind," I faltered, bending low over my work.
"Kind, is she?" he said, with a laugh. "So you've begun already to screw your way into her good graces, have you? That's right, Tinman; that's what you're down here for, you old rascal. Watch all she does—follow her about—pounce on any letters that may chance to come for her, and let me see them first. Spy on her, you dog—find out all about her."
I did not answer; I was glad to think that this brute could have so little knowledge of me as to suppose that I should do it. He was evidently satisfied with my silence; after a moment or two he went on talking again.
"You're going to see company, Tinman. I've got a friend coming down here to stay—man named Dawkins. He's a sly devil, and I may want him; incidentally, you can watch him too. Fanshawe also is coming."
"Jervis Fanshawe?" I looked up at him quickly in surprise.