The other was a cautious man.
“Why do you ask?” he countered, bluntly.
“Oh—please—do not misunderstand me. I am not trying to pry into your affairs. But, whatever they are, I would like to know if they are very pressing—if there is any great hurry about them.”
“A month or two makes no difference.”
“Good!” exclaimed Sir James and, when the American looked up with quick suspicion, he immediately proceeded to that operation which is vulgarly known as drawing a herring across one's trail.
“Mr. Warburton,” he purred, “you must forgive my—how shall I put it …?”
“Butting in—that's what we call it back home in America!” chimed in Jane, to her father's horror.
“Thank you, my dear lady.” Sir James was not at all embarrassed and, turning to her father:
“We feel rather responsible for you, don't you know.”
“Awfully kind of you.”
“Not at all, not at all. But—there you are. With prominent international men like yourself—the—oh—the responsibility …”
“What are you driving at?” demanded Mr. Warburton, again becoming suspicious.
“Only that this is the very worst season of the year to travel about India. Cholera outbreak in Lahore, you know, and the heat and the flies and all that. Wait till after the monsoon …”
“But—”
“This brittle heat,” the other went on, smiling at
