Lucilla cut him short. “What were you saying about magic when I came in?”
“Only that this man, Watkins—he’s the husband of your ayah, by the way—says queer things go on here, and pretends to believe in magic.”
“Do you know, Antony”—Mrs. Crespin turned to her husband—“when the Raja was speaking about him—this man Watkins—down there, it seemed to me that his face was somehow familiar to me.”
Crespin sat bolt upright, and his tired face lit with interest. “There, Doctor!” he exclaimed. “What did I say? I knew I’d seen him before, but I’m damned if I can place him.”
“I wish I could get a good look at him,” Lucilla said thoughtfully. And as she spoke Watkins passed through the room again, carrying four blossoms which he took to the dinner table and laid on the folded serviettes; and Traherne saw him.
“That’s easy,” he told her. “There he is. Shall I call him in?”
Mrs. Crespin nodded eagerly. “Do! Say I want him to thank his wife from me.”
“Watkins!” Traherne called him.
“Sir?” Watkins responded instantly, but without moving from the table.
“Mrs. Crespin would like to speak to you.” And at that the man came at once, and stood waiting, inwardly curious, outwardly respectful.