She turned, determined to keep the conversation to such unexceptionable subjects. “You, sir? I cannot believe such a thing to be possible!”
“It sounds remarkably like the insignia of the Four-Horse Club,” he said. “But what in the name of all that’s wonderful should one of our members be doing in Queen Charlton?”
A confused sound of conversation reached them from the entrance-parlour. Above it the landlord’s voice, which was rather high-pitched, said clearly: “My best parlour is bespoke by Sir Richard Wyndham, sir, but if your honour would condescend—”
“What?”
There was no difficulty at all in hearing the monosyllable, for it was positively shouted.
“Oh, my God!” said Sir Richard, and turned to run a quick eye over Miss Creed. “Careful now, brat! I fancy I know this traveller. What in the world have you done to that cravat? Come here!”
He had barely time to straighten Miss Creed’s crumpled tie when the same penetrating voice uttered: “Where? In there? Don’t be a fool, man! I know him well!” and hasty footsteps were heard crossing the entrance-parlour.
The door was flung open; the gentleman in the fifteen-caped driving-coat strode in, and, upon setting eyes on Sir Richard, cast his hat and gloves from him, and started forward, exclaiming: “Ricky! Ricky, you dog, what are you doing here?”
Pen, effacing herself by the window, watched the tall young man wring Sir Richard’s hand, and wondered where she could have seen him before. He seemed vaguely familiar to her, and the very timbre of his reckless voice touched a cord of memory.
“Well, upon my soul!” he said. “If this don’t beat all! I don’t know what the deuce you’re doing here, but you’re the very man I want to see. Ricky, does that offer of yours hold good? Damme, if it does, I’m off to the Peninsula by the first boat! There’s the devil and all to pay in the family this time!”