The man averted his eyes. He dared not look at Martin. He made pretense to bite the end off a cigar. He was compelled to do something to keep his lips from trembling.
“I hope we shall meet often again, Martin,” he said slowly. “I’ll tell you more than the book does, though I have not read it. Run off to your friends at the vicarage. Good-by!”
He held out his hand, which the boy shook diffidently. There was no doubt whatever in Martin’s mind that Colonel Grant was an extraordinarily nice gentleman.
“My God, Dobson!” cried the soldier, turning again to look after the alert figure of the boy; “I have seen him, spoken to him—my own son! I would know him among a million.”
“He certainly bears a marked resemblance to your own photograph at the same age,” admitted the cautious solicitor.
“And what a fine youngster! By Jove, did you twig the way he caught on to the pronunciation of Aliwal? Bless that book! It shall be bound in the rarest leather, though I never rode through that gate—I ran, for dear life! I—I tell you what, Dobson, I’d sooner do it now than face these people, the Bollands, and explain my errand. I suppose they worship him.”
“The position differs from my expectations,” said the solicitor. “The boy does not talk like a farmer’s son. And he is going to tea at the vicarage with a lady of good social position. Can the Bollands be of higher grade than we are led to believe?”
“The newspaper is my only authority. Ah, here is the ‘Black Lion.’”
Mrs. Atkinson bustled forward to assure the gentlemen that she could accommodate them. Colonel Grant was allotted the room in which George Pickering died! It was the best in the hotel. He glanced for a moment through the window and took in the scene of the tragedy.