“I am glad to see you, Robert,” she said in tones that vibrated somewhat. “Why did you not let me know you were coming?”
“Because I did not know myself until an hour before I left London. Moreover, you might have wired and told me to stop away, so I sailed without orders.”
The position was awkward. The new-comer had evidently walked from Stowmarket. He had the appearance of a gentleman, soiled and a trifle truculent, perhaps, but a man of birth and good breeding.
Helen was gazing at him in sheer wonderment. He was so extremely like David that, at a distance, it was easy to confuse the one with the other.
Brett, too, examined him curiously. He recalled “Rabbit Jack’s” pronouncement—“either the chap hisself or his dead spit.”
But it behoved him to rescue the ladies from an impasse.
“When you reached Stowmarket did the stationmaster exhibit any marked interest in you?” he inquired.
“Well, now, that beats the band,” cried Robert. “He looked at me as though I had seven heads and horns to match. But how did you know that?”
“Merely on account of your marked resemblance to David Hume-Frazer. It puzzled the stationmaster some time ago. By the way, you appear to like the shade of the yew trees outside. Do you always approach Beechcroft Hall in the same way?”
The ex-sailor’s bold eyes did not fall before the barrister’s penetrating glance.