"Of course one mustn't trust anybody; still, that doesn't
prevent your going to tea with her. In fact what you really ought to be
doing is making love to her--so long as you keep your head."
"I am handicapped," I pointed out, "by drunken habits, a beard, and
Mother Beagle's Beautiful Black Dye. No, Jack, I do not see orange
blossom this trip."
"Apart from these romantic dreams," persisted my cousin, "she is far more
likely to be inquisitive about you if you never go near the house. In
fact I could see it in her eye to-day."
"Well," I said, "I'll call to-morrow and dispel her interest in me."
Since my talk with the doctor, his theory about Jean Rendall had crossed
my mind occasionally, and improbable as it was, I thought I might as
well test it.
"By the way," I asked, "did you by any chance ever speak to Miss Rendall
about my last visit to the island?"
His look of surprise was a sufficient answer in itself.
"Speak to her of your adventure? Not a word at any time! Why?"
"The doctor has an idea that she knows more than she says, and that you
may have told her something."
"Rubbish!"
"I knew it was," I assured him.
And so that possibility was finally eliminated.
We thought it wiser that our ways should part some little distance
from the pier.
"Good-luck, old chap," said he, shaking my hand.
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