“Swimming—jumping—wrestling! A good morning’s exercise! And all before those lazy chaps, Roger and Cromlech, are out of bed!”
So saying, Lord Lynborough vaulted the wall again in high good humour.
CHAPTER VII
ANOTHER WEDGE!
DEPRIVED of their leader’s inspiration, the other two representatives of Scarsmoor did not brave the Passage Perilous to the sea that morning. Lynborough was well content to forgo further aggression for the moment. His words declared his satisfaction—
“I have driven a wedge—another wedge—into the Marchesa’s phalanx. Yes, I think I may say a second wedge. Disaffection has made its entry into Nab Grange, Cromlech. The process of isolation has begun. Perhaps after lunch we will resume operations.”
But fortune was to give him an opportunity even before lunch. It appeared that Stabb had sniffed out the existence of two old brasses in Fillby Church; he was determined to inspect them at the earliest possible moment. Lynborough courteously offered to accompany him, and they set out together about eleven o’clock.
No incident marked their way. Lynborough rang up the parish clerk at his house, presented Stabb to that important functionary, and bespoke for him every consideration. Then he leant against the outside of the churchyard wall, peacefully smoking a cigarette.
On the opposite side of the village street stood the Lynborough Arms. The inn was kept by a very superior man, who had retired to this comparative leisure after some years of service as butler with Lynborough’s father. This excellent person, perceiving Lynborough, crossed the road and invited him to partake of a glass of ale in memory of old days. Readily acquiescing, Lynborough crossed the road, sat down with the landlord on a bench by the porch, and began to discuss local affairs over the beer.
“I suppose you haven’t kept up your cricket since you’ve been in foreign parts, my lord?” asked Dawson, the landlord, after some conversation which need not occupy this narrative. “We’re playing a team from Easthorpe to-morrow, and we’re very short.”
“Haven’t played for nearly fifteen years, Dawson. But I tell you what—I daresay my friend Mr Wilbraham will play. Mr Stabb’s no use.”