“Oh, yes, he’s a rich man now and I have acted for him,” returned Mr. Ferguson. “Since the French occupation, land in and around Casablanca has gone up to fifty times its former value. Ravenel has realised some of it. I have bought the freehold of his father’s house close to you and let it for seven years and invested a comfortable sum for him in British securities. So I gather that he means to come back in a little while.”
Colonel Vanderfelt was relieved upon one score, but it was only to have his anxiety increased upon the other.
“When did you hear from Paul last?” he asked, and Mr. Ferguson answered:
“Some while ago. Let me think. Yes, it must be a year at the least.”
Colonel Vanderfelt repeated the conversation to his wife on his return to King’s Corner, and both of them shirked the question which was heavy at their hearts.
“It will be pleasant to have him as a neighbour,” said Mrs. Vanderfelt.
“Yes,” replied the Colonel. “And it might be quite soon! Seven years he has let the house for. And we are getting no younger, are we! The sooner the better, I say!”
Some look upon his wife’s face, a droop of her shoulders, made him stop; and it was in a quiet and strangely altered voice that he began again:
“We are both pretending, Milly, and that’s the truth. We are afraid. It would be hard lines if he died before he did what he aimed to do. Yet we have got to face that possibility.”
Mrs. Vanderfelt was turning over a plan in her mind.