Mrs. Saumarez hailed the stranger effusively.
“It is delightful to run across anyone who knew my husband,” she said. “In this remote part of Yorkshire none seems to have ever heard of him. Believe me, Colonel Grant, it is positively a relief to meet a man who recognizes my name.”
She may have intended this for an oblique thrust at Beckett-Smythe, relations between the Hall and The Elms having been somewhat strained since the inquest. The Squire, a good fellow, who had no inkling of Angèle’s latest escapade, hastened to make amends.
“You two must want to chat over old times,” he said breezily. “Why not come and dine with me to-night? I have only one other guest—an Admiralty man. He’s prowling about the coast trying to select a suitable site for a wireless station.”
Now, Mrs. Saumarez would have declined the invitation had Beckett-Smythe stopped short at the first sentence. As it was, she accepted instantly.
“Do come, Colonel Grant,” she urged. “What between the Navy and the Intelligence Department it should be an interesting evening.... Oh, don’t look so surprised,” she went on, with an engaging smile. “I still read the Gazette, you know.”
“And what of the kiddies?” said Beckett-Smythe. “They know my boys. Your chauffeur can bring them home at nine. By the way, the meal will be quite informal—come as you are.”
“What do you say, Martin?” said the colonel.
“I shall be very pleased, sir; but may I—ask—my mother first?”
The boy reddened. His new place in the world was only twenty-four hours old, and his ideas were not yet adjusted to an order of things so astounding that he thought every minute he would wake up and find he had been dreaming.