“I address a fellow-guest of Sir Philip's, no doubt? I said, with as easy an air as is possible for a man who has just fallen from the top of a wall where he had no business to have climbed.
“Fellow-guest!” he repeated. “Do you mean to pretend you are visiting Helmscote?”
“I am about to; though I confess to you, sir, that Sir Philip is at present unaware of my intention.”
“Indeed?” said he.
“Yes,” I said. “You are doubtless a friend of Sir Philip's, sir?”
He emitted something that was between a laugh and an exclamation.
“More or less,” he replied. “And who are you?”
“My name is d'Haricot, and I am a friend of his son, Dick Shafthead.”
He started perceptibly, and looked at me with a different expression.
“I have heard your name,” he said.