‘Yes, upon some business of Mr. Torwood’s. It’s a fine county, I should say, by what I saw of it. Do you know it at all, sir?’
‘I—oh—Yorkshire, did you say?’ said Belassis, seemingly rather flustered by the sudden query. ‘Why, Yorkshire is a big place, you know. Yes, to be sure, I was there once, when I was a lad; but that’s a long time ago now;’ and he gave rather a sickly laugh.
Tor fancied that his wife noticed his constrained manner, and glanced curiously at him.
‘It was a pretty little town I had to visit, quite an ideal place for quiet picturesqueness. Whitbury was its name. I suppose you do not know anything of it?’
Mr. Belassis’ face seemed to turn all colours at once.
‘Whitbury—Whitbury!’ he stammered, with an immense effort to make his voice sound natural. ‘No, I don’t remember that name. I don’t think I could ever have been there.’
‘I am sure you would never have forgotten the place if you had seen it,’ continued Tor. ‘It is so particularly pretty. There is a fine old church there, and a river running through the valley, which is quite a resort for fishermen, I believe. I have some thoughts of going there again some day to fish. The Angler’s Arms is an inviting little inn. There is something very attractive to me in a simple little English town.’
‘Ah, yes—very—very much so,’ answered Belassis vaguely, feeling as though an iron hand was clutching at his throat, yet experiencing an insane desire to find out whether or not this detestable nephew was talking with a purpose.
The frank affable manner gave him a dim hope that all was well; but he dared not meet the eyes which perhaps would have told him more.
‘You—you—went on business for your friend, did you? How comes he to have business in Whitbury? I thought he had lived always abroad.’