“No, he has not been here for some time. But he is the son—adopted son, rather—of Mr. Ackroyd of Fernly Park.”
My neighbor made a slight gesture of impatience.
“Of course, I should have guessed. Mr. Ackroyd spoke of him many times.”
“You know Mr. Ackroyd?” I said, slightly surprised.
“Mr. Ackroyd knew me in London—when I was at work there. I have asked him to say nothing of my profession down here.”
“I see,” I said, rather amused by this patent snobbery, as I thought it.
But the little man went on with an almost grandiloquent smirk.
“One prefers to remain incognito. I am not anxious for notoriety. I have not even troubled to correct the local version of my name.”
“Indeed,” I said, not knowing quite what to say.
“Captain Ralph Paton,” mused Mr. Porrott. “And so he is engaged to Mr. Ackroyd’s niece, the charming Miss Flora.”