“Married his kitchenmaid probably,” said Repton. “A sort of Aurélie, I shouldn’t wonder, who wears an all-round cap and sabots.”
“My uncle is a gentleman, not a clod-hopper,” put in Bayre with warmth. “I think we may take it for granted he married a woman in his own rank of life. At least, I object to it’s being taken for granted that he didn’t.”
“My dear fellow, keep your hair on!” said Repton. “It’s quite permissible to wonder whether a man who goes about in a jersey and fisherman’s overalls did or did not marry to suit his rank, or marry to suit his tastes.”
The discussion threatened to grow warm, as discussions between the indiscreet Repton and the more serious Bayre often did. Southerley interposed by observing that they really had nothing to argue upon at present, and that they had better master their subject before they proceeded to disagree about it.
One source of information, however, they now found unavailable. Aurélie had evidently been frightened by her mistress into discretion, for she would answer no more questions about Monsieur Bayre, except by a significant shrug and shake of the head.
It was with a mind full of curiosity about his long-neglected uncle, therefore, that Bartlett Bayre strolled out, on the morning after their arrival in Guernsey, and made his way down to the harbour.
Southerley was there already, and Bayre saw at once, by the look of excitement in his usually lymphatic face, that something of interest had occurred.
“What’s up?” said Bayre, briefly.
“What’s up?” echoed Southerley, getting off the upturned boat on which he had been sitting, and speaking in a voice of mellifluous thunder. “Why, I’ve had an adventure.”
“Already?”