Sir Clinton shook his head.
“I’ve had very little time to collect local gossip this morning, Cecil. I’ve been busy getting things started for this bit of work in the lake, you see.”
“If you’d been down in Hincheldene village you could hardly have missed it. I went down this morning to get some tobacco and I found the whole place buzzing with it. That was before I’d seen Maurice, luckily.”
“Suppose you tell me what it is,” Sir Clinton suggested, drily.
“Do you remember my telling you about the family spectre, the White Man?” Cecil asked. “Well, it seems that the village drunkard, old Groby, was taking a short cut through our woods last night—or rather this morning, for he’s a bit of a late going-to-rooster—and he got the shock of his life in one of the glades. He swears he saw the White Man stealing about from tree to tree. By his way of it, he was near enough to see the thing clearly—all white, even the face. What a lark!”
“You certainly seem to take your family spectre a bit lightly, Cecil. What’s the cream of the jest?”
Cecil’s face took on a vindictive expression.
“Oh, it gave me a chance of getting home on Maurice, after he’d given me the key of the street. I told him all about it and I rubbed in the old story. You know what I mean? The White Man never appears except when the head of the family’s on his last legs. Maurice didn’t like it a bit. He looked a bit squeamish over it; and I came away leaving that sticking in his gills.”
Sir Clinton hardly concealed his distaste for this kind of thing.
“You flatter yourself, I expect. Maurice is hardly likely to waste any thought over superstitions of that sort.”