Miss Macroyd laughed the more; then she purposely darkened her countenance so as to suit it to her lugubrious whisper, “How did she get here?” “What she?” “The mysterious fugitive. Wasn’t she coming here, after all?” “After all your trouble in supposing so?” Verrian reflected a moment, and then he said, deliberately, “I don’t know.” Miss Macroyd was not going to let him off like that. “You don’t know how she came, or you don’t know whether she was coming?” “I didn’t say.” Her laugh resounded again. “Now you are trying to be wicked, and that is very wrong for a novelist.” “But what object could I have in concealing the fact from you, Miss Macroyd?” he entreated, with mock earnestness. “That is what I want to find out.” “What are you two laughing so about?” the voice of Mrs. Westangle twittered at Verrian’s elbow, and, looking down, he found her almost touching it. She had a very long, narrow neck, and, since it was long and narrow, she had the good sense not to palliate the fact or try to dress the effect of it out of sight. She took her neck in both hands, as it were, and put it more on show, so that you had really to like it. Now it lifted her face, though she was not a tall person, well towards the level of his; to be sure, he was himself only of the middle height of men, though an aquiline profile helped him up. He stirred the tea which he had ceased to drink, and said, “I wasn’t ‘laughing so about,’ Mrs. Westangle. It was Miss Macroyd.” “And I was laughing so about a mysterious stranger that came up on the train with us and got out at your station.” “And I was trying to make out what was so funny in a mysterious stranger, or even in her getting out at your station.” Mrs. Westangle was not interested in the case, or else she failed to seize the joke. At any rate, she turned from them without further question and went away to another part of the room, where she semi-attached herself in like manner to another couple, and again left it for still another. This was possibly her idea of looking after her guests; but when she had looked after them a little longer in that way she left the room and let them look after themselves till dinner. “Come, Mr. Verrian,” Miss Macroyd resumed, “what is the secret? I’ll never tell if you tell me.” “You won’t if I don’t.” “Now you are becoming merely trivial. You are ceasing even to be provoking.” Miss Macroyd, in token of her displeasure, laughed no longer. “Am I?” he questioned; thoughtfully. “Well, then, I am tempted to act upon impulse.” “Oh, do act upon impulse for once,” she urged. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” “Do you mean that I’m never impulsive?” “I don’t think you look it.” “If you had seen me an hour ago you would have said I was very impulsive. I think I may have exhausted myself in that direction, however. I feel the impulse failing me now.” XI.