“I'll have a tray in the gun room,” his master decided, “say in twenty minutes' time. And, Mills, who did you say were dining?”
“Two of the young officers from the Depot, sir—Mr. Harrison and Mr. Sinclair—and Mr. Hamar Lessingham.”
“Lessingham, eh?” Sir Henry repeated, as he seated himself before his writing-table. “Mills,” he added, in a confidential whisper, “what port did you serve?”
The butler's expression was one of conscious rectitude.
“Not the vintage, sir,” he announced with emphasis. “Some very excellent wood port, which we procured for shooting luncheons. The young gentlemen like it.”
“You're a jewel, Mills,” his master declared. “Now you understand—an aperitif for me now, some whisky for Jimmy in your room, and not a word about my being here. Good night, Jimmy. Sorry we were too late for the mackerel, but we had some grand sport, all the same. You'll have a day or two's rest ashore now.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” Dumble replied. “We got in just in time. There's something more than a squall coming up nor'ards.”
Sir Henry listened for a moment. The French windows shook, the rain beat against the panes, and a dull booming of wind was clearly audible from outside.
“We timed that excellently,” he agreed. “Come up and have a chat to-morrow, Jimmy, if your wife will spare you.”
“I'll be round before eleven, sir,” the fisherman promised, with a grin.