“He’ll most likely tear them up,” de Cartienne remarked. “He’s beastly rich and he can’t want the money.”
“Where did you drop across him, Len?” asked Cecil, seating himself upon a chest and lighting a cigarette.
“He’s a friend of my governor’s. I’ve known him ever since I was a kid,” de Cartienne answered slowly. “There, I think that’ll do!” critically looking at the gleaming muzzle which he held in his hand.
“Why this sudden fit of industry?” inquired Cecil, yawning. “Going to do any shooting?”
de Cartienne nodded and began deliberately pulling the gun to pieces.
“Yes; I’ve had a long day indoors to-day and I mean to make up for it by potting some wild duck to-morrow. Hilliers told me that he’d heard of some very fair sport round by Rushey Ponds last week. You’d better come with me.”
“Thanks, I’ll see,” Cecil answered. “I’m not very keen on wild duck potting.”
“Haven’t you been out all day, then, de Cartienne?” I asked—“not even to Drayton?”
“Not outside the house,” he answered. “Do I look like it?”
He pointed to his slippered feet, his old clothes, and held up his hands, black with oil and grease, I took in the details of his appearance, feeling a little bewildered. It seemed barely possible that he could have been in Little Drayton an hour ago.