“Banks, the chauffeur,” he said, as if he were giving himself up as a well-known criminal.
I was not entirely unprepared for that reply, but I had no tactful answer to make. I rejected the spontaneous impulse that arose, as I thought quite fantastically, to say “I believe I have met your sister;” and fell back on an orthodox “Well?” I tried to convey the effect that I still waited to be shocked.
“I suppose you’re staying up at the Hall?” he said.
“For the week-end only,” I admitted.
“Been a pretty fuss there, I take it?” he said.
“Some,” I acknowledged.
He set his resolute-looking mouth and submitted me to cross-examination.
“Been looking for me?” he began.
“In a way. Frank Jervaise and I went up to your father’s house.”
“What time?”