"They need only 'ave dropped over the park wall to reach the London Road, your ludship," suggested Watkins.
"Oh, I see your point," agreed Hugh. "Then Hilyer's people might have seen them. I'll find an opportunity to speak to him about it.'
"Thank you, your ludship."
And Watkins withdrew.
CHAPTER VI
THE HILYER PARTY
"Mr. and Mrs. Hilyer, your ludship!"
And never in my life have I seen anything more splendid than the emotionless disapproval with which Watkins was able to invest his countenance as he announced our callers.
Hilyer was a lean, rangy chap, with a hatchet face and close-set eyes. His mustache was waxed in the Continental fashion, and he had slim, powerful hands, the hands of a born horseman and gambler. He looked what he was: good blood gone wrong.
His wife was a handsome, statuesque woman, awfully well turned out. She was absolutely in the mode, as perfect as a show-girl in a Gayety production. And she had cold eyes that saw everything, and never lost their icy glitter even when her manner was warmest.