“I hope it won’t come to that,” he wound up. “Something may turn up sooner than one hopes.”
Sir Clinton thought it well to change the subject again.
“By the way, Cecil,” he asked, “do you know anything about this man Foss? What sort of person is he?”
It seemed an unfortunate topic. Cecil’s manner was anything but gracious as he replied:
“Foss? Oh, you know what sort of a fellow he is already. A damned eavesdropper on his hosts and a beggar with a tongue hinged in the middle so that he can talk with both ends at once. I’d like to wring his neck for him! What do they call the breed that runs off and splits to the police? Copper’s narks, isn’t it?”
“It wasn’t exactly that side of him that I wanted to hear about, Cecil. I’m quite fully acquainted with his informative temperament already. What I want to know is the sort of man he is socially and so forth.”
Cecil curbed his vexation with an effort.
“Oh, he seems to have decent enough manners—a bit Yankee, perhaps, in some things. He must do well enough out of this agent business of his, acting for Kessock and the like, you know. He arrived here with a big car, a chauffeur, and a man. Except for his infernal tale-bearing, I can’t say he’s anything out of the ordinary.”
Sir Clinton, apparently feeling that he had struck the wrong vein in the conversational strata, contented himself with a nod of comprehension and let Cecil choose his own subject for the next stage in their talk. He was somewhat surprised when it came.
“Have you heard the latest from the village?” Cecil demanded.