“Watch old Pugsley.”
He gave a chirp.
“The parson?”
“Yes, Pugsley.”
He beamed on me delighted.
“Of course,” he said; “why didn’t I ever think of that? If I could only catch those two talking together now, I might get at something valuable.”
“Which two?” I asked.
It appeared that he meant Dalston and Pugsley. Somehow he had got it into his head that they were in league to keep me out of the Skene succession, by pretending that I was not the lawful son of my mother. So much for my power of trenchant summarising. It did not really matter a bit, so long as I could put him harmlessly out of the way. My shot for the parson was quite a happy one. Pugsley would never apprehend that he was being watched; and if he did suspect it, his conceit would put it down to the fascination of his apostolic person.
“Very well,” I said. “Pugsley’s your quarry. Don’t wander much from those preserves. Besides, you know, it will employ you about the neighbourhood, and you’d like that.”
“Of course I should.”