“Oh, not in any way that’s discreditable; but as a matter of fact, there’s a gay young widow here, and they’re fairly going it!”

I lit my cigarette with a certain unexpected sense of downright satisfaction.  So there was something in it after all.  It had seemed such a fool’s errand in the train.

“A young widow,” I repeated, emphasising one of Quinby’s epithets and ignoring the other.

“I mean, of course, she’s a good deal older than Evers.”

“And her name?”

“A Mrs. Lascelles.”

I nodded.

“Do you happen to know anything about her, Captain Clephane?”

“I can’t say I do.”

“No more does anybody else,” said Quinby, “except that she’s an Indian widow of sorts.”

“Indian!” I repeated with more interest.

Quinby looked at me.

“You’ve been out there yourself, perhaps?”

“It was there I knew Hamilton,” said I, naming our common friend in the Engineers.

“Yet you’re sure you never came across Mrs. Lascelles there?”

“India’s a large place,” I said, smiling as I shook my head.

“I wonder if Hamilton did,” speculated Quinby aloud.

“And the Lascelleses,” I added, “are another large clan.”

“Well,” he went on, after a moment’s further cogitation, “there’s nobody here can place this particular Mrs. Lascelles; but there are some who say things which they can tell you themselves.  I’m not going to repeat them if you know anything about the boy.  I only wish you knew him well enough to give him a friendly word of advice!”

“Is it so bad as all that?”

“My dear sir, I don’t say there’s anything bad about it,” returned Quinby, who seemed to possess a pretty gift of suggestive negation.  “But you may hear another opinion from other people, for you will find that the whole hotel is talking about it.  No,” he went on, watching my eyes, “it’s no use looking for them at this time of day; they disappear from morning to night; if you want to see them you must take a stroll when everybody else is thinking of turning in.  Then you may have better luck.  But here are the letters at last.”

The concierge had appeared, hugging an overflowing armful of postal matter.  In another minute there was hardly standing room in the little hall.  My companion uttered his unlovely laugh.

“And here comes the British lion roaring for his London papers!  It isn’t his letters he’s so keen on, if you notice, Captain Clephane; it’s his Daily Mail, with the latest cricket, and after that the war.  Teale is an exception, of course.  He has a stack of press-cuttings every day.  You will see him gloating over them in a minute.  Ah! the old judge has got his Sportsman; he reads nothing else except the Sporting Times, and he’s going back for the Leger.  Do you see the man with the blue spectacles and the peeled nose?  He was last Vice Chancellor but one at Cambridge.  No, that’s not a Bishop, it’s an Archdeacon.  All we want is a Cabinet Minister now; every evening there is a rumour that the Colonial Secretary is on his way, and most mornings you will hear that he has actually arrived under cloud of night.”