“Is the vicar a friend of yours?” he said to Martin.
“Yes, sir. I like him very much.”
“Does a Mrs. Saumarez live here?”
“Oh, yes. She is at the vicarage now, I expect.”
“Indeed. You might tell her you met a Colonel Grant, who knew her husband in South Africa. You will not forget the name, eh—Grant?”
“Of course not, sir.”
Martin surveyed the stranger with redoubled attention. A live colonel is a rare sight in a secluded village. The man, seizing any pretext to prolong the conversation, drew out a pocketbook.
“Here is my card,” he said. “You need not give it to Mrs. Saumarez. She will probably recognize my name.”
The boy glanced at the pasteboard. It read: