‘I beg you to take my word for it, there are reasons,’ he said earnestly. ‘Be advised, my dear Brownlow. Let sleeping dogs lie.’
I was puzzled—how could I help being so? But, more and more, I began to fear the connection between Fédore and Hartover had been resumed.
‘And where is Mademoiselle Fédore now?’ I said presently.
‘’Pon honour, I am not responsible for the whereabouts of gay damsels.’
‘Then she is no longer with lady Longmoor?’
‘No, no—has left her these two months—may be in St. Petersburg by now, or in Timbuctoo, for aught I know.’
‘The police could find her there as well as here.’
His tone changed, becoming as sarcastic as his easy good-nature and not very extensive vocabulary permitted.
‘And so you would really hunt that poor girl to the gallows? Shut her up in gaol—eh? I thought you preached mercy, went in for motives of Christian charity, and so forth. We live and learn—well, well.’
He took another turn, nervously, while I grew increasingly puzzled. Was it possible Fédore might be connected with him, and not with Hartover? If so, what more natural and excusable than his reluctance to satisfy me? That thought softened me.