“Is your son Herbert in America? Is he a barrister? Describe him. Of the utmost importance. Telegraph instantly to
“J. V. Crosse, Ocean House,
Newport, R. I., U. S. A.”
I chuckled as I handed over my greenbacks.
“He doesn’t think I’ve taken him at his word. A few hours will unriddle him,” were my thoughts as we emerged from the hotel. I had seen Grey Seymour that morning en route to bathe. There were black shadows beneath his eyes, and the great brightness which I had so much admired the day before had faded out of his face. What was the issue of that most remarkable conversation?
He was the first person I encountered after passing through the icy fingers of Mrs. Dyke Howell, and much of the old look had returned.
“Have you seen the Finches?” he asked.
“No.”
“By the way, who is your friend Mr. Price?”
“He’s no particular friend of mine—merely a travelling acquaintance. He’s a member of the English bar, and very clever.” This latter assertion I believed in my heart.
“Is he rich?”