"Perhaps, my lord, I don't pronounce it just right. Mrs. Valdriguez is Spanish."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, my lord, she was here first in the time of Lord Wilmersley's mother, and 'is lordship brought 'er back again when he returned from 'is 'oneymoon. Lady Wilmersley never left these rooms without 'aving either 'is lordship, Mustapha, or Valdriguez with 'er."
"Very good, Douglas, you can go now."
"A pretty state of things!" cried Cyril when the door closed behind the butler. "Here in civilised England a poor young creature is kept in confinement with a Spanish woman and a Turk to watch over her, and no one thinks of demanding an investigation! It's monstrous!"
"My boy, you're right. Never liked the man myself—confess it now—but I didn't know anything against him. Pretty difficult to interfere, what? Never occurred to me to do so."
"I am deeply pained by your attitude to your unfortunate cousin, who paid with his life for his devotion to an afflicted woman. I feel it my duty to say that your suspicions are unworthy of you. I must go now; I have some parochial duties to attend to." And with scant ceremony the vicar stalked out of the room.
"It's getting late, I see. Must be off too. Can't be late for dinner—wife, you know. Why don't you come with me—gloomy here—delighted to put you up. Do come," urged Twombley.
"Thanks awfully, not to-night. I'm dead beat. It's awfully good of you to suggest it, though."
"Not at all; sorry you won't come. See you at the inquest," said Twombley as he took his departure followed by the coroner.