“Portrait of a woman—yes, yes. But he did not know who she was. And I do not know whether I gave him enough for it. Do you think I did, Jack?”
“I do not know how much you gave him, but I have no doubt that it was too much. Where did he get it?”
“He thinks it was brought from France by his mother, or the woman who was supposed in Farlingford to be his mother—together with other papers, which he burnt, I believe.”
“And then he died?”
“Yes—yes. He died—but he left a son.”
“The devil he did! Why did you not mention that before? Where is the son? Tell me all about him, while I see how they’ve served this langue fourrée, which should be eaten slowly; though it is too late to remind you of that now. Go on. Tell me all about the son.”
And before the story of Loo Barebone was half told, John Turner laid aside his knife and fork and turned his attention to the dissection of this ill-told tale. As the story neared its end, he glanced round the room, to make sure that none was listening to their conversation.
“Dormer Colville,” he repeated. “Does he come into it?”
“He came to Farlingford with the Marquis de Gemosac, out of pure good-nature—because the Marquis could speak but little English. He is a charming man. So unselfish and disinterested.”
“Who? The Marquis?”