“Yes, sir,” replied Braxfield. “A biggish one.”
“Then they’re not likely to keep very early hours there just now,” observed Guy.
“I hear that they keep very late ones, sir,” said Braxfield. “Dancing—and so on.”
“Very well,” continued Guy. “Now then—does Mrs. Wrenne still keep the Sceptre Inn, in the village?”
Braxfield’s plump countenance changed colour—he blushed, like any young girl.
“Well, sir,” he faltered, with a shy laugh. “She doesn’t. The fact is, sir—you’ll laugh at me, Mr. Guy—Mrs. Wrenne and me, sir, we got married, four years ago, sir. So Mrs. Wrenne is now Mrs. Braxfield.”
“Bless me!” exclaimed Guy. “Caught you at last, eh, Braxfield? Then I suppose Mrs. Braxfield is—here?”
“No, sir, and never has been,” replied the old butler. “I live here, as usual. But my wife, sir, and her daughter—you remember Poppy, Mr. Guy? a pretty girl that’s now a handsome young woman—they live at Woodland Cottage, across our park. My wife took it, sir, when she left the Sceptre.”
“Oh!” said Guy. “Then—who has the Sceptre, now?”
“Man named Grimsdale, sir—he was groom to Sir James Marchant, formerly. He’s improved it a good bit, sir; since all this motoring began, there’s a lot of traffic along our main road.”