“I understand that he has, sir.”
Braxfield was wondering what these questions meant, and his face showed his wonder. But Guy’s face had become sphinx-like. He turned away from the butler, took off his smart hat, overcoat, and gloves, threw them into an easy chair in a corner, and drawing a case from his breast-pocket, selected a cigar, and leisurely lighted it. Braxfield knew enough of cigars to know that that was an expensive one; he knew, too, that as far as appearances went the lost son, of seven years’ silence had not come home like a prodigal. Guy was dressed in the height of fashion; his grey tweed suit, bearing the unmistakable stamp of Savile Row, stood out in striking contrast to the worn and ancient garments in which Harry Markenmore went about the old place. And on the hand which raised a match to the cigar glittered a fine diamond ring, acting as a sort of keeper to another ring, of curious workmanship and appearance, on the third finger.
“Look here!” said Guy again. “Another question. I’ve heard that Mrs. Tretheroe—who was Miss Veronica Leighton—is in these parts again. Is that so?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Braxfield. “She’s come back, too—quite recently. She’s taken the Dower House, Mr. Guy—you know, sir, at the bottom of our park. She took it a month or so ago, from Mr. Harry—he acts in everything now, sir—and she’s moved into it.”
“She took it?” exclaimed Guy, with emphasis on the personal pronoun. “She! What? . . . is Colonel Tretheroe dead, then?”
“Died out in India, sir—so I’m given to understand—a year since,” answered Braxfield. “So—she returned home and came looking for a house about here, and, as I say, has got our Dower House. And she looks no older, Mr. Guy—not a bit! Handsomer than ever, sir.”
Braxfield was regaining his confidence, and his tongue. He wanted to talk, now.
“They say she’s a very wealthy young widow, Mr. Guy,” he went on. “Colonel Tretheroe, he left her everything—and he was a rich man, I’m told. Seems like it, too—she’s got a fine staff of servants, and she’s spent a lot of money on the house already, and is spending more. Got a house-party there just now—London people I believe. Seems inclined to enjoy herself, I think, sir.”
“Are there any children?” asked Guy.
“No children, sir,” replied Braxfield. “Never been any, so I’m told.”