“I haven’t much to do with the heads,” said the young fellow, looking uncomfortable.
“Something pinches there,” said Ibbetson inwardly, with his suspicions confirmed. Aloud he said, laughing, “I’m not in Mr Thornton’s best books at this present moment, but I might be able to give you an introduction—where do you go at Christmas?”
“Nowhere. I stay here.”
“Gloomy work, isn’t it?” said Jack, compassionately.
“It doesn’t matter. I’d rather stop on here,” said Clive, kicking a piece of coal.
“Is your cousin in London—I mean Mr Trent?”
“Oliver Trent?” glancing up in surprise. “Do you know him? Oh, you met him at the villa, I suppose. Yes, he is. At least I believe so. He and old—he and Mr Thornton are very thick.”
“He!”
“Didn’t you know it?”
“Not I. But perhaps that’s not to be wondered at. Still—”