“I should say,” replied Barthorpe, after a moment’s consideration, “I should say—from my best recollection—a few months after I came to London. It was certainly within a year of my coming.”
“You remember his coming?”
“Not particularly. I remember that he came—at first, I took it, as a visitor. Then I found he’d had rooms of his own given him, and that he was there as a permanency.”
“Settled down—just as he has been ever since?”
“Just! Never any difference that I’ve known of, all these years.”
“Did Jacob ever tell you who he was?”
“Never! I never remember my uncle speaking of him in any particular fashion—to me. He was simply—there. Sometimes, you saw him; sometimes, you didn’t see him. At times, I mean, you’d meet him at dinner—other times, you didn’t.”
Burchill paused for a while; when he asked his next question he seemed to adopt a more particular and pressing tone.
“Now—have you the least idea who Tertius is?” he asked.