“You’re in a delightfully prophetic vein this afternoon,” laughed his host. “I suppose it’s the dull weather.”
At this the elder man halted, turned upon him suddenly, placed his hand upon his shoulder, and said in a deep and earnest tone:
“Recollect, Dudley, that what I told you this morning at breakfast was for your own good. I’m not a fellow given to preaching or moralising, that you know well. But I tell you straight to your face that before long you’ll know Muriel Mortimer. All I urge upon you is not to allow yourself to be captivated.”
“Then you know something distinctly to her detriment?” Chisholm suggested, for what his friend had said had shown him plainly that this girl was mixed up in unsavoury matters.
“I only say that she’s not a desirable person for you to know.”
Dudley laughed uneasily. These words were all the more remarkable in the light of old Parsons’ statement.
“You speak just as though you feared I might marry her!” he said.
“Well, there are many things more unlikely than that,” was the elder man’s reply. “We hear of strange matches nowadays.”
“And if I married this fair unknown, what then?”
“Well, before you do that just take my advice and swallow an overdose of chloral, or something of that sort. It would be a far easier way out of this work-a-day world than marriage with her.” Chisholm looked at him quickly.