There was a dead silence. If the stranger had said "George the Fifth of
England" he could not have produced more effect. All three stared at
him with their mouths open. "What's the matter with that?" he asked.
"It's a very respectable name, and it really does belong to me. Perhaps
I should give you my card." He put his hand in his breastpocket.
"Oh no," Mollie said rather breathlessly. "No—please don't mind—it's quite all right, only—you look so young."
"So what?" exclaimed Major Campbell, standing stock still with his hand in his pocket.
"I mean," Mollie explained nervously, "I mean—" looking at the boys for help, but in vain, "I—you—so young to be a friend of Grannie's" she ended feebly.
"You're a goose, Moll," Dick broke in. "We once knew a Hugh Campbell, but it was years and years ago, and he was ever so much younger than you—he was my age—and there must be thousands of Hugh Campbells."
"Years and years ago! Your age! And she says I look too young!" repeated Major Campbell in pardonable bewilderment. "How old do I look—five perhaps?"
Mollie blushed, and the boys giggled. "Look here," said Dick, "if we stand here till midnight discussing Major Campbell's age we won't get home to tea, and then Aunt Mary will send out a search party, and we'll look pretty asinine. Long John's getting baity, he'll bolt in a minute. Take the reins, Mollie. Don't eat all the strawberries, and tell Aunt Mary that cherry jam is my fancy. Come on, Young Outram."
Major Campbell saw the boys start before taking the reins from Mollie. Long John gave his head an impatient toss, and set off with the determination that he would not stop again for anybody till he was in sight of his stable.
A hundred thoughts chased each other through Mollie's mind. Of course this could not possibly be that Hugh Campbell. It would be altogether too queer. And yet—after all, nothing could be much queerer than the experience they had already had. Putting one thing and another together it did seem to be more than a coincidence that a Hugh Campbell should be on his way to see someone who had a green diamond set in a ring given to her "long, long ago". She stole a look at her companion as he sat opposite her, his eyes fixed on the road ahead and his thoughts obviously elsewhere. Hugh the inventor had not passed even thirteen years without gathering various little mementoes of his inventions in the shape of scars here and there, and these had not escaped the sharp observation of Mollie, the Girl Guide. There had been a tiny gap in his left eyebrow, the result of inventing a new pattern of firework—a crooked little finger on his left hand—a funny star-shaped mark on his right jaw. Some of these and other remembered marks might have been obliterated by time, but if even one remained she would recognize it. He had removed his hat and disclosed a head of closely cropped grey hair, which made him look older. Yes—there was the gap in his eyebrow and the crooked finger. Mollie felt certain that this was indeed the inventor.
"Have you ever been in Dublin?" she asked abruptly, forgetting for the moment that asking questions was forbidden.