‘Friends in London!’ echoed Tom.
‘Ah!’ said Westlock, ‘to be sure.’
‘Have you any friends in London, Ruth, my dear!’ asked Tom.
‘No, Tom.’
‘I am very happy to hear that I have,’ said Tom, ‘but it’s news to me. I never knew it. They must be capital people to keep a secret, John.’
‘You shall judge for yourself,’ returned the other. ‘Seriously, Tom, here is the plain state of the case. As I was sitting at breakfast this morning, there comes a knock at my door.’
‘On which you cried out, very loud, “Come in!”’ suggested Tom.
‘So I did. And the person who knocked, not being a respectable young man, aged thirty-five, from the country, came in when he was invited, instead of standing gaping and staring about him on the landing. Well! When he came in, I found he was a stranger; a grave, business-like, sedate-looking, stranger. “Mr Westlock?” said he. “That is my name,” said I. “The favour of a few words with you?” said he. “Pray be seated, sir,” said I.’
Here John stopped for an instant, to glance towards the table, where Tom’s sister, listening attentively, was still busy with the basin, which by this time made a noble appearance. Then he resumed:
‘The pudding having taken a chair, Tom—’