“Are you quite sure that Asta was in ignorance of it?”
“Quite confident.”
“You told her nothing?”
“Of course not. I have kept my own counsel and remained with my eyes very wide-open. Every day has rendered it more plain that our friend is not what he pretends to be.”
The situation was, I saw, a most critical one. The young man loved Asta very devotedly, and, suspecting some undefined evil of Shaw, was now watching his movements as narrowly as a cat watches a mouse. This was curious, having regard to Arnold’s written words of caution. The latter’s suspicion seemed to have been aroused after his arrival in London.
“Have you mentioned this to anybody?” I asked him.
“Not to a soul.”
“Then if I may be permitted to advise,” I said, “I should say no word to anybody—not even to Miss Seymour. I will assist you, and we will continue to watch and act together.”
“Good!” he cried. “Your hand upon it, Kemball.” And we grasped hands.
“I somehow fear that something will happen to Asta,” he said in a low hoarse voice. “I may be foolish and unjust in my suspicions, yet I seem to have a distinct presage of evil.”