Part 22 (1/2)

”My cousin--er--Lancelot told me.”

Sally was silent for a moment. She had much the same feeling that comes to the man in the detective story who realizes that he is being shadowed. Even if this almost complete stranger had not actually come to America in direct pursuit of her, there was no disguising the fact that he evidently found her an object of considerable interest. It was a compliment, but Sally was not at all sure that she liked it. Bruce Carmyle meant nothing to her, and it was rather disturbing to find that she was apparently of great importance to him. She seized on the mention of Ginger as a lever for diverting the conversation from its present too intimate course.

”How is Mr. Kemp?” she asked.

Mr. Carmyle's dark face seemed to become a trifle darker.

”We have had no news of him,” he said shortly.

”No news? How do you mean? You speak as though he had disappeared.”

”He has disappeared!”

”Good heavens! When?”

”Shortly after I saw you last.”

”Disappeared!”

Mr. Carmyle frowned. Sally, watching him, found her antipathy stirring again. There was something about this man which she had disliked instinctively from the first, a sort of hardness.

”But where has he gone to?”

”I don't know.” Mr. Carmyle frowned again. The subject of Ginger was plainly a sore one. ”And I don't want to know,” he went on heatedly, a dull flush rising in the cheeks which Sally was sure he had to shave twice a day. ”I don't care to know. The Family have washed their hands of him. For the future he may look after himself as best he can. I believe he is off his head.”

Sally's rebellious temper was well ablaze now, but she fought it down.

She would dearly have loved to give battle to Mr. Carmyle--it was odd, she felt, how she seemed to have const.i.tuted herself Ginger's champion and protector--but she perceived that, if she wished, as she did, to hear more of her red-headed friend, he must be humoured and conciliated.

”But what happened? What was all the trouble about?”

Mr. Carmyle's eyebrows met.

”He--insulted his uncle. His uncle Donald. He insulted him--grossly. The one man in the world he should have made a point of--er--”

”Keeping in with?”

”Yes. His future depended upon him.”

”But what did he do?” cried Sally, trying hard to keep a thoroughly reprehensible joy out of her voice.

”I have heard no details. My uncle is reticent as to what actually took place. He invited Lancelot to dinner to discuss his plans, and it appears that Lancelot--defied him. Defied him! He was rude and insulting. My uncle refuses to have anything more to do with him.

Apparently the young fool managed to win some money at the tables at Roville, and this seems to have turned his head completely. My uncle insists that he is mad. I agree with him. Since the night of that dinner nothing has been heard of Lancelot.”

Mr. Carmyle broke off to brood once more, and before Sally could speak the impressive bulk of Fillmore loomed up in the aisle beside them.

Explanations seemed to Fillmore to be in order. He cast a questioning glance at the mysterious stranger, who, in addition to being in conversation with his sister, had collared his seat.

”Oh, hullo, Fill,” said Sally. ”Fillmore, this is Mr. Carmyle. We met abroad. My brother Fillmore, Mr. Carmyle.”

Proper introduction having been thus effected, Fillmore approved of Mr.