Mr. Longvale sighed.
“It is my regret that I do not come from the direct line that included Charles Henry, the most historic member of my family. He was my great-uncle. I come from the Bordeaux branch of Longvales, which has made history, sir.” He shook his head regretfully.
“Are you French, Mr. Longvale?” asked Jack.
Apparently the old man did not hear him. He was staring into space. Then, with a start:
“Yes, yes, we were French. My great-grandfather married an English lady whom he met in peculiar circumstances. We came to England in the days of the directorate.”
Then, for the first time, he seemed aware of Adele’s presence, and bowed toward her.
“I think I must go,” he said, taking a huge gold watch from his fob pocket.
The girl watched them as they passed out of the hall, and presently she saw the “old-fashioned gentleman” pass the window, driving the oldest-fashioned car she had ever seen. It must have been one of the first motor-cars ever introduced into the country, a great, upstanding, cumbersome machine, that passed with a thunderous sound and at no great speed down the gravel drive out of sight.
Presently Jack Knebworth came slowly back.
“This craze for being screened certainly gets ’em—old or young,” he said. “Good night, Miss—forget your name—Leamington, ain’t it? Good night.”