“How are you, Mr. Fothergill West?” he cried. “I must apologise to you if I was a little brusque the other night—you will excuse an old soldier who has spent the best part of his life in harness—All the same, you must confess that you are rather dark-skinned for a Scotchman.”
“We have a Spanish strain in our blood,” said I, wondering at his recurrence to the topic.
“That would, of course, account for it,” he remarked. “My dear,” to his wife, “allow me to introduce Mr. Fothergill West to you. This is my son and my daughter. We have come here in search of rest, Mr. West—complete rest.”
“And you could not possibly have come to a better place,” said I.
“Oh, you think so?” he answered. “I suppose it is very quiet indeed, and very lonely. You might walk through these country lanes at night, I dare say, and never meet a soul, eh?”
“Well, there are not many about after dark,” I said.
“And you are not much troubled with vagrants or wandering beggars, eh? Not many tinkers or tramps or rascally gipsies—no vermin of that sort about?”
“I find it rather cold,” said Mrs. Heatherstone, drawing her thick sealskin mantle tighter round her figure. “We are detaining Mr. West, too.”
“So we are, my dear, so we are. Drive on, coachman. Good-day, Mr. West.”
The carriage rattled away towards the Hall, and I trotted thoughtfully onwards to the little country metropolis.