“He’s lying in the blackberry bushes,” was the grim reply.
They approached the front door, where the motor-car was standing. The Marquis strolled out to meet them, with a pleasant smile. He was entirely free from embarrassment and he addressed Jacob courteously.
“Mr. Pratt,” he said, “the fortune of war has changed. Breakfast is served in the dining-room. Might I suggest a bath and a shave?”
Jacob lost his head.
“You damned rascal!” he exclaimed.
The Marquis’s eyebrows were slightly elevated. Otherwise he was unmoved.
“My dear sir,” he rejoined, with a gently argumentative air, “of course I am a rascal. Every one of my family, from the days of the Highland robber who founded it, has been a rascal. So are you a rascal, when the opportunity presents itself. We all fight for our own hand in varying ways. A touch of my ancestry has evolved this little scheme, whose lamentable failure I deplore. A touch of your ancestry, my dear Mr. Pratt, would without a doubt induce you to dispose of some of those wonderful oil shares of yours in a hurry to a poorer man, if you thought their value was going to decline. Just now I am faced with failure. I do not lose my temper. I offer you freshly broiled trout, a delicious salmon, some eggs and bacon, and hot coffee.”
Jacob looked at Lord Felixstowe, and Lord Felixstowe looked at him. Up from the landing stage came Lady Mary, singing gaily.
“What about it, old dear?” Felixstowe asked. “We can catch the eleven-twenty.”
“Call it tribute,” the Marquis suggested ingratiatingly, “the tribute of the beaten foe. My servant shall attend you at the bathroom, Mr. Pratt. Do not keep us waiting longer than you can help. And remember, between ourselves—between gentlemen—not a word about the matter to the Marchioness or Lady Mary.”