“Lots, dad.”
“Ah!—Ever married either of them?”
“Not he.”
“That’s a pity,” said Wilton, “because it would have made matters so easy. Well, there, be off. The dog-cart’s at the door.”
Claud slapped his pocket, started for the station, and went up to stay at a bigger hotel than the quiet little place affected by his father; and about twelve o’clock the next day he presented himself at Garstang’s office, where Barlow, the old clerk, was busy answering letters for his employer to sign.
“Morning, Barlow,” said Claud, “Mr Harry in his room?”
“Mr Harry, sir? No, sir. I thought he was down with you, shooting and hunting.”
“Eh? Did he say that he was going down to Northwood?”
“Well, dear me! Really, Mr Claud Wilton, sir, I can’t be sure. I think I did hear him say something about Northwood; but whether it was that he was going there or had come back from there I really am not sure. Many pheasants this season?”
“Oh, never mind the pheasants,” cried Claud, impatiently. “When was that?”