“Nobody knows,” said he.
“But where is it?”
“Nobody knows. But I’ve ’eard say it’s in a book in the libery in the house yonder. But it ain’t no good, because there’s never been a Lord Arden come to his title without he’s left his ten years far behind him.”
Edred had a queerer feeling in his head than you can imagine; his hands got hot and dry, and then cold and damp.
“I suppose,” he said, “you’ve got to be Lord Arden? It wouldn’t do if you were just plain John or James or Edred Arden? Because my name’s Arden, and I would like to have a try?”
The old man stooped, caught Edred by the arm, pulled him up, and stood him between his knees.
“Let’s have a look at you, sonny,” he said; and had a look. “Aye,” he said, “you’re an Arden, for sure. To think of me not seeing that. I might have seen your long nose and your chin that sticks out like a spur. I ought to have known it anywhere. But my eyes ain’t what they was. If you was Lord Arden—— What’s your father’s name—his chrissened name, I mean?”
“Edred, the same as mine. But father’s dead,” said Edred gravely.
“And your grandf’er’s name? It wasn’t George, was it—George William?”
“Yes, it was,” said Edred. “How did you know?”