“WE’VE got no pedigree,” Guy interposed, with a bitter smile. “So the less she investigates about that the better.”
“But SHE has, I expect,” Nevitt put in hastily; “and if I were you, Cyril, I’d hunt her up forthwith, while the iron’s hot, and find out all there is to find out about her. Clifford-Clifford? I wonder whether by any chance she’s one of the Devonshire Cliffords, now? For if so, she might really be worth a man’s serious attention. They’re very good business. They bank at our place; and they’re by no means paupers.” For Nevitt was a clerk in the well-known banking firm of Drummond, Coutts, and Barclay, Limited; and being a man who didn’t mean, as he himself said, “to throw himself away on any girl for nothing,” he kept a sharp look-out on the current account of every wealthy client with an only daughter.
Ten minutes later, as the talk ran on, some further light was unexpectedly thrown upon this interesting topic by the entrance of the porter with a letter for Cyril. The painter tore it open, and glanced over it, as Nevitt observed, with evident eagerness. It was short and curt, but in its own way courteous.
“‘Mr. Reginald Clifford, C.M.G., desires to thank Mr. Cyril Waring for his kindness and consideration to Miss Clifford during her temporary incarceration—-’
“Incarceration’s good, isn’t it? How much does he charge a thousand for that sort, I wonder?—
“‘during her temporary incarceration in the Lavington tunnel yesterday. Mrs. and Miss Clifford wish also to express at the same time their deep gratitude to Mr. Waring for his friendly efforts, and trust he has experienced no further ill effects from the unfortunate accident to which he was subjected.
“‘Craighton, Tilgate, Thursday morning.’”
“She MIGHT have written herself,” Cyril murmured half aloud. He was evidently disappointed at this very short measure of correspondence on the subject.
But Montague Nevitt took a more cheerful view. “Oh, Reginald Clifford, of Craighton!” he cried with a smile, his invariable smile. “I know all about HIM. He’s a friend of Colonel Kelmscott’s down at Tilgate Park. C.M.G., indeed! What a ridiculous old peacock. He was administrator of St. Kitts once upon a time, I believe, or was it Nevis or Antigua? I don’t quite recollect, I’m afraid; but anyhow, some comical little speck of a sugary, niggery, West Indian Island; and he was made a Companion of St. Michael and St. George when his term was up, just to keep him quiet, don’t you know, for he wanted a knighthood, and to shelve him from being appointed to a first-class post like Barbados or Trinidad. If it’s Elma Clifford you were shut up with in the tunnel, Cyril, you might do worse, there’s no doubt, and you might do better. She’s an only daughter, and there’s a little money at the back of the family, I expect; but I fancy the Companion of the Fighting Saints lives mainly on his pension, which, of course, is purely personal, and so dies with him.”
Cyril folded up the note without noticing Nevitt’s words and put it in his pocket, somewhat carefully and obtrusively. “Thank you,” he said, in a very quiet tone, “I didn’t ask you about Miss Clifford’s fortune. When I want information on that point I’ll apply for it plainly. But meanwhile I don’t think any lady’s name should be dragged into conversation and bandied about like that, by an absolute stranger.”