“Saumarez!” murmured Colonel Grant. “I once met a man of that name. He was shot on the Modder River.”
“This girl may be his daughter. The paper describes her mother as a lady of independent means, visiting the moors for her health.”
“Poor Saumarez! From what I remember of his character, the child must be a chip of the same block—he was an irresponsible daredevil, a terror among women. But he died gallantly.”
“There’s a lot about her in the local paper, which reached me this morning. Would you care to see it?”
“Newspapers are so inaccurate. They never know the facts.”
Yet the colonel, not caring to play bridge, asked later for the loan of the journal named by his informant, and read therein the story of the village tragedy. As fate willed it, the writer was the reporter of the Messenger, and his account was replete with local knowledge.
Yes, Mrs. Saumarez was the widow of Colonel Saumarez, late of the Hussars. But—what was this?
“Martin Court Bolland, a bright-faced boy, of an intelligence far greater than one looks for in rustic youth, has himself a somewhat romantic history. He is the adopted son of the sturdy yeoman whose name he bears. Mr. and Mrs. Bolland were called to London thirteen years ago to attend the funeral of the farmer’s brother. One evening while seeing the sights of the great metropolis they found themselves in Ludgate Hill. They were passing the end of St. Martin’s Court, when a young woman named Martineau——”
The colonel laid aside his cigar and twisted his body sideways, so that the light of the billiard-room lamps should fall clearly on the paper yet leave his face in the shade.