“I am anxious to have some news of Lord Tetherdown.”
“Well, why don’t you ask him?” Mr. Coppett laughed.
“He’s not to be found.”
“What, gone off again, has he? Lord, he’s always at it. My dear chap, he’s simply potty about his curios. I don’t know the first thing about them, but it beats me how a fellow can fall for that old junk. One of the best and all that don’t you know, but it’s a mania with him. He’s always running off after some queer bit of tripe.”
“When do you expect him back?”
“Search me,” Mr. Coppett laughed. “My dear chap, he don’t tell me his little game. Old Martha might know.”
“She doesn’t.”
Mr. Coppett laughed again. “He always was a close old thing. He just pushes off, don’t you know, on any old scent. And after a bit he blows in again.”
“Then—you don’t know—when you’ll see him again?” Reggie said slowly.
“Give you my word I don’t,” Mr. Coppett cried. “Sorry, sorry.”