“Oh, she’s a ward, is she?” remarked Chisholm. “What’s her name?”
“Muriel Mortimer.”
“A ward in Chancery, I suppose?”
“I’m not certain,” replied Murray-Kerr hesitatingly. “I only saw her once, on the day of my arrival at Fernhurst. She left for Hertfordshire next day. Lady Meldrum, however, seemed devoted to her—went up to town to see her off, and all that sort of thing. But who’s been chattering to you about her?”
“Oh, I heard her spoken of somewhere. The fellow who told me said she was rather pretty.”
“Yes,” the other answered in rather a strange and hesitating manner, “she is—very pretty, and quite young.”
“Do you know absolutely nothing more concerning her?” Chisholm asked. “You always know everything about everybody when you’re in the smoking-room at the Junior, you know.”
“In the club a man may open his mouth, but it isn’t always wise when visiting friends,” the colonel replied with a laugh.
“I don’t quite follow you,” his companion said. “Surely Wroxeter is as free as Charles Street, isn’t it?”
“Well, no, not quite, my dear Dudley—not quite.”