“Children?”
“He has fifteen sons, sir.”
“The daughters don’t count, eh?” Crespin demanded.
“I’ve never ’ad a hopportunity of counting ’em, sir,” Watkins said as if gently correcting a not too excusable ignorance.
“He said,” Traherne slipped in, “the men accused of assassinating a political officer were his brothers—”
“Did ’e say that, sir?” the man asked quickly—evidently he was startled out of his well-trained impersonality. Clearly Watkins was excited.
“Didn’t you hear him? What did he mean?” Traherne said it carefully, not as if too much interested, watching Watkins narrowly though, and pressing swiftly into the possible opening.
But Watkins had remembered himself. “I’m sure I couldn’t say, sir,” he said colorlessly, permitting himself the slightest shrug. “’Is ’Ighness is what you’d call a very playful gentleman, sir.”
“But,” Traherne insisted, “I don’t see the joke in saying that.”
“No, sir?” the servant replied respectfully. “’P’raps ’Is ’Ighness’ll explain, sir,” he added significantly.