“Certainly, certainly, my dear fellow. Delighted, Well, Miss Effie”—as that young person ran against them in the hall—“here I am, back again to tease you, you see.”
“Where’s Uncle Renshaw, Mr Sellon?” said the child.
Maurice stared. The straight question—the straight look accompanying it, disconcerted him for a moment.
“Renshaw! Oh, coming on,” he answered quickly, “coming on. Be here soon, I dare say.”
He had made the same sort of reply to the same inquiry on the part of his host. He thought he had done with the subject. It irritated him to be called upon to repeat the same lie over and over again.
“By the way, Mr Sellon,” began the latter, “did you get the letter I sent you at Maraisdorp?”
“Mister Sellon!” Maurice started. Old Chris, was taking the thing seriously indeed, he thought with an inward laugh.
“Not I,” he answered. “Probably for the best of all possible reasons. I didn’t come through Maraisdorp, or anywhere near it.”
“Before going any further, I want you to look at this,” said Selwood, unlocking a small safe and taking out the unfortunate missive. “Wait—excuse me one moment, I want you to look attentively at the direction first.”
He still held the envelope. Maurice took one glance at the address—the handwriting—and as he did so his face was not pleasant to behold.