"
Reggie coughed and stared for a moment at the end of his boot.
"Can't understand it at all!" he repeated. "Devilish queer thing, anyway!
I say, Paul, you're sure it's all right, I suppose?"
"All right? What do you mean?"
"Between you and me," he went on--"don't give it away outside this room,
you know--but there have been rumors going about concerning an American
and his pretty daughter over here--regular wrong 'uns! They've been up to
all sorts of tricks and only kept out of prison by a fluke."
"You're not associating these people, whoever they may be, with Mr. and
Miss Bundercombe?" I asked sternly.
Reggie gazed once more at the point of his boot.
"The thing is," he remarked, "are your friends Mr. and Miss Bundercombe at
all?"
"Don't talk rot!"
"It may be rot," Reggie admitted slowly, "or it may not. By the by, where
did you meet them?"
"If you don't mind," I answered, "we won't discuss them any longer."
"At least," Reggie insisted, "will you tell me this: Where have they been
staying in London? I shall go there and see whether they have left any
address for letters to be forwarded."
"I shall tell you nothing," I decided. "As a matter of fact I am finding
you rather a nuisance.
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