of the matter is, he asked some rather queer questions about you,—or, at all events, if they weren’t exactly questions, they—they came to the same thing.”
Sidney was beginning to glare under his brows. Common-sense told him how very unlikely it was that a respectable solicitor should compromise himself in talk with a stranger, and that such a man as J. J. Snowdon; yet, whether the story were true or not, it meant that Joseph was plotting in some vile way, and thus confirmed his suspicions. He inquired, briefly and indifferently, what Mr. Percival’s insinuations had been.
“Well, I told you I don’t much care for the fellow. He didn’t say as much, mind, but he seemed to be hinting-like that, as Jane’s father, I should do well to—to keep an eye on you—ha, ha! It came to that, I thought,—though, of course, I may have been mistaken. It shows how little he knows about you and father. I fancy he’d got it into his head that it was you set father on those plans about Jane,—though why I’d like to know.”
