“But who is this person?” went on Lady Orlebar, again scanning the letter. “The people he is with now are named Daventer—not Glover. Do you know who it can be?”
“Honestly, I don’t. To the best of my belief I never heard the name before in my life. All the more does it look like a try-on—an impudent and barefaced try-on. On second thoughts, however, I’ll send it up to Stretton in the morning, and tell him to see if he can make anything out of it, or to act as he thinks fit. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.”
“Why don’t you send for Philip himself and make him explain. It appears to me that he would be the proper person to throw what light he could upon the matter.”
“Oh, it’s of no use worrying the boy. He may be here any day now. It’ll be time enough then.”
Lady Orlebar gave a snort of defiance. The above remark was as a direct challenge to her to renew the battle. But her husband looked so anxious, so worried himself, that even she forebore, for once, to worry him further.
There was silence in the room. Sir Francis sat abstractedly gazing upon the table in front of him—in reality seeing nothing at all. His whole mind was filled up with this scrape that his son had got into. It was not the amount of the claim that affected him—on that point he felt fairly secure. Philip was of age, but had not a shilling in the world of his own; out of him, therefore, nothing could be got. But that his name should once more be dragged through the mud, and that at the instance of a harpy, an adventuress, this was where the sting of it all lay. “Once more,” we said. For Sir Francis had very good reasons of his own for avoiding anything that should drag his name into notoriety.
So unpleasantly absorbing were his reflections, so rapt was he in his reverie, that the entrance of the butler was wholly unnoticed. Not until the man had twice drawn his attention to the card which lay upon a salver did he awake from his abstraction, and then it was with a start, for the card was inscribed—“Mr Richard Fordham.”
Fordham!—Phil’s friend, whom he had more than once pressingly invited to make a stay at Claxby Court, which invitation had persistently been declined upon one ground or another. Fordham—the man who had been Philip’s travelling companion, guide, philosopher, and friend during the past year. Surely if any one knew anything of this unfortunate affair, Fordham was the man. True, it would have struck him at any other time that to arrive after dinner unannounced and unexpected was somewhat of an odd proceeding, but Phil had always described his friend as an out-and-out eccentricity. Besides, his visit might relate to this very affair. The baronet saw light. “Where is this gentleman, Karslake?” he said eagerly. “I showed him into the library, Sir Francis. He said he would not detain you long, and his fly is waiting for him at the door.”
The library was lighted only by one shaded lamp in the centre of the table; consequently it was in semi-gloom. The visitor was seated in a low chair with his back to the door, and Sir Francis on entering hardly perceived him. Then, closing the door behind him and giving a slight cough, the baronet began—
“Mr Fordham, I believe—Garcia! Oh, good God!”