In a few minutes the table was tidy, and Mrs. Prisom, at Fanks' request, had brought in her knitting. He guessed that she would talk better with the needles clicking in her active hands, and herein he judged wisely, for thus employed Mrs. Prisom would gossip for hours, provided she had a good listener.
"I suppose you knew the mother of Mr. Garth?" said Fanks, plunging at once into the history of the Fellenger family.
"Miss Eleanor? Ah, that I did; but she was a proud young lady, and didn't care to play with me, even as a child, because I was the daughter of the steward. They were all proud, the Fellengers, except Sir Francis."
"That was Sir Gregory's father?"
"Yes. There was Sir Francis, the eldest and the merry one; Mr. Michael, the father of the present Baronet, Sir Louis, he was proud, too; and then Miss Eleanor, who married Mr. Garth. But I liked Sir Francis the best of all," concluded the old lady, with a sigh.
There was a look in her eyes as she said this, which made Fanks think that she had been in love with the gay baronet, in the old days.
"He was a bonny man, Sir Francis Fellenger," she resumed. "Never a maid but what he had a smile for, and many a kiss did he take without the asking," laughed Mrs. Prisom. "Oh, he was a merry blade. But all sailors have those ways."
"Was Sir Francis a sailor?" asked Fanks, suddenly.
"He was a Captain in the Navy before he came into the title," said Mrs. Prisom, "then he settled down and married Miss Darmer, a Shropshire lady. But she died, poor soul, when Sir Gregory was born, and it was five weeks after her death, that Sir Francis was killed by being thrown from his dog-cart."
"Sir Francis was a sailor?" asked Fanks, abruptly. "I suppose when he went to sea and came home a middy, he had anchors, and ships, and true lovers' knots, and such like things tattooed upon his skin."