“I do know Miss Thorold,” I remarked, emphasising the “Miss Thorold,” “but I don’t remember that she has ever mentioned your name to me.”
“No, probably she wouldn’t mention it. Vera is discreet, if she is nothing else.”
The impertinence of this reply was so obvious, so pointed, that I knew it must have been intentional.
“Really, I don’t follow you,” I said icily. “What, pray, has Miss Thorold to say to you, and what have you to say to her?”
“Oh, a very great deal, I can assure you.”
“Indeed? How intensely interesting!”
“It is, very. Her flight from Houghton that night must have astonished you.”
I could bear the fellow’s company no longer. Emptying my tumbler, I rose with deliberation, and, excusing myself with frigid politeness, strode out of the fumoir.
In the vestibule I met the good-looking young Englishman. He had left the room soon after Paulton had entered. Now he came up and spoke to me.
“I hope you’ll forgive my addressing you,” he said in well-bred accents, raising his hat, “but I heard your name mentioned when Paulton introduced Henderson to you. May I ask if you are the Mr Richard Ashton?”