CHAPTER XXVIII
A chilly, rainy mist shrouded the country and blotted out the familiar beauty. Not a day for walking, but Christopher had chosen to tramp to a far-off corner of the estate on some pretence of business and had come back through the wet, dripping woods, burr-covered and muddy. He was met in the hall by a message that Mr. Aymer wanted him at once, so without waiting to change he strode away, whistling, to the West Room and came to a standstill on the threshold, finding Aymer had visitors with him.
There were two gentlemen, one was Mr. Shakleton, the son and successor of the old solicitor who had played his part in the finding of Christopher, the other was a stout, complacent man with gold-rimmed glasses and scanty sandy hair, and all three of the occupants of the room looked towards the door as if waiting for and expecting him. A glance at Cæsar’s face brought Christopher swiftly to his side and established instantly a sense of antagonism with the visitors.
“You want me, Cæsar?”
“Yes. We want you. Mr. Shakleton you know. This is Mr. Saunderson.”
Both men stood up and to Christopher’s amazement bowed profoundly.
“I am very honoured to meet you,” said Mr. Saunderson suavely. “I hope it will be the commencement of a long and fruitful acquaintance.”
Christopher felt rather at a loss to know if the man meant to be impertinent or was merely being silly. He looked at Cæsar with the hostile impatience he felt only too apparent. The hostility but not the 310 impatience deepened as he noticed the drawn beaten look on Aymer’s face. Also he was uncomfortably conscious of the three pairs of eyes watching him with rapt attention. The mild Mr. Shakleton, however, seemed entirely obscured by the expansive personality of the bigger man.
“Confound him,” thought Christopher, “has he never seen burrs on a wet coat before or is my tie up?”
“Christopher,” said Aymer, at last, “come and sit by me, will you. I think I should like to tell you myself.” He looked at Mr. Saunderson as if waiting permission.