If the lady's manner was meant to be crushing—and it seemed that it was—the stranger remained uncrushed. He only stared the more.
"How?"
Mrs. Paynter leaned back in her corner.
"My dear Edith, do not let us trouble this person further."
"But I do know Datchet"
Up went the lady's glasses again. But if she meant to stare the stranger out of countenance, she simply scored another failure.
"When you say 'Datchet,' are you referring to the Earl of Datchet?"
"Dicky Datchet; yes, that's him."
"'Dicky Datchet'! Really, you appear to be upon intimate terms with his lordship. Do you happen to be aware if his lordship is travelling by this train?"
"I'll bet a guinea he isn't"
"Indeed! I understood, upon good authority, that he intended to do so."
"Not he. Dicky's at Bpulogne."
"At Boulogne, is he? You seem to have a close acquaintance with his lordship's movements. May I ask if you are a friend of his?"
Mrs. Paynter was quite incapable of anything more cutting in the way of sarcastic suggestion than her manner conveyed; but, in spite of it, the stranger seemed beautifully unconscious that there was any intention of the kind.
"Well, it depends on what you call a friend."
"It depends, as you say, very much indeed upon what you call a friend."
