Mr. Linnell looked up from his seat and motioned Peter to a chair beside him.
“Sit down, Peter! And listen attentively! Ever heard of Laurence P. Stewart?” Peter had, and said so immediately.
“Naturally! The American millionaire you mean, I presume?”
“The same. Know anything about him—anything special?”
Peter thought for a moment. “Can’t say that I do—beyond what all the world knows. Made his money first in Chicago and afterwards on Wall Street—I fancy he’s a widower.”
“Quite right. With one son—about two and twenty. I’ll tell you more! About three months ago Stewart came to England. At the time Assynton Lodge was in the market. He bought it and, I believe, paid a pretty stiff figure for it. It’s a very fine place—not very far from Wantage—and right in the heart of the Berkshire Downs. I understand that he intends spending the remainder of his days in this country.”
“Don’t think I should, if I had his money,” contributed Peter. “Still—there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose. What’s his pet ambition—to win the Derby or become an O. B. E.?”
“Neither,” replied Linnell a trifle testily. “But your question, flippant though it may have been, brings me to his association with this conversation of ours this morning.” He leaned forward to pick up a letter from the desk in front of him. Then turned again towards his partner. “He has one overpowering interest in life. He is a collector——”
“Horrible word,” interrupted Peter. “Makes me think of Rates and Income Tax.”
“He is a collector,” repeated the elder man, ignoring the interruption. “For many years now, his one hobby has been his priceless and almost unique collection of articles of what may be termed, paramount historical interest and association.”