"Well he saw old Fanshawe there. He happened to be on leave."
"Old Fanshawe?"
"No, Tom Blackmore. He likes poking into out-of-the-way places."
"I dare say."
"He has such a turn for the picturesque and all that, and draws very nicely."
"The long bow, I dare say."
"Well, no matter, he was there—old Fanshawe I mean—Blackmore saw him. He knows his appearance perfectly—used to hunt with his hounds, and that kind of thing, and often talked to him, so he could not be mistaken—and there he was as large as life."
"Well?"
"He did not know Tom a bit, and Tom asked no questions—in fact, he did not care to know where the poor old fellow hides himself—he preferred not—but Madame something or other—I forget her name—gave him a history, about as true as Jack the Giant-Killer, of the eccentric English gentleman, and told him that he had taken a great old house, and had his family there, and a most beautiful young wife, and was as jealous as fifty devils; so you see Margaret must have been there. Of course that was she," said Tom.
"And you said so to your friend Blackmore?" suggested Cleve Verney.