James Lawrie replied courteously, appointing a day, and on it Francis walked across Dale Park and over the new Cromwell Bridge and up the shabby-genteel street from the river to the stucco Gothic house.
Tibby opened the door to him and looked him up and down.
“You’ll be Mr. Folyat,” she said.
“That is my name.”
“Our Bennett’s been a new lad since he went to your house, Mr. Folyat.”
“I’m glad of that.”
“It’s not all to the good,” said Tibby, grumpily, and she turned and led him down the long passage to the dining-room.
She announced:
“The Reverend Mr. Folyat to see you.”
James Lawrie was sitting at the table engrossed in a game of dominoes. He looked up at Francis and nodded, and pointed with the stem of his pipe to a chair on the other side of the table. Francis took it, and Tibby left them. Old Lawrie rattled the dice and turned up a six and three. He grunted: