"Mrs. Rosewarne," he said, "you asked me to find out what I could about that red-faced person, you know. Well, here is an advertisement which may interest you. I came on it quite accidentally last night in the smoking-room of the hotel."
It was a marriage advertisement, cut from a paper about a week old. The name of the lady was "Katherine Ann, widow of the late J.T. Shirley, Esq., of Barrackpore."
"Yes, I was sure it was that woman," Mrs. Rosewarne said eagerly. "And so she is married again?"
"I fancied the gay young things were here on their wedding-trip," Trelyon said carelessly. "They amused me. I like to see turtle-doves of fifty billing and cooing on the promenade, especially when one of them wears a brown wig, has an Irish accent and drinks brandy-and-water at breakfast. But he is a good billiard-player—yes, he is an uncommonly good billiard-player. He told me last night he had beaten the Irish secretary the other day in the billiard-room of the House of Commons. I humbly suspect that was a lie. At least, I can't remember anything about a billiard-table in the House of Commons, and I was two or three times through every bit of it when I was a little chap with an uncle of mine, who was a member then; but perhaps they've got a billiard-table now. Who knows? He told me he had stood for an Irish borough, spent three thousand pounds on a population of two hundred and eighty-four, and all he got was a black eye and a broken head. I should say all that was a fabrication too; indeed, I think he rather amuses himself with lies—and brandy-and-water. But you don't want to know anything more about him, Mrs. Rosewarne?"
She did not. All that she cared to know was in that little strip of printed paper; and as she left the room to get ready for the drive she expressed herself grateful to him in such warm tones that he was rather astonished. After all, as he said to himself, he had had nothing to do in bringing about the marriage of that somewhat gorgeous person in whom Mrs. Rosewarne was so strangely interested.
They were silent as they drove away. There was one happy face amongst them, that of Mrs. Rosewarne, but she was thinking of her own affairs in a sort of pleased reverie. Wenna was timid and a trifle sad: she said little beyond "Yes, Mr. Trelyon," and "No, Mr. Trelyon," and even that was said in low voice. As for him, he spoke to her gravely and respectfully: it was already as if she were a mere stranger.
Had some of his old friends and acquaintances seen him now, they would have been something more than astonished. Was this young man, talking in a gentle and courteous fashion to his companion, and endeavoring to interest her in the various things around her, the same daredevil lad who used to clatter down the main street of Eglosilyan, who knew no control other than his own unruly wishes, and who had no answer but a mocking jest for any remonstrance?
"And how long do you remain in Penzance, Mr. Trelyon?" Mrs. Rosewarne said at length.
"Until to-morrow, I expect," he answered.
"To-morrow?"