"It's strange we've not met again since that time," he soliloquized as he puffed away at his pipe. "Never dreamt he'd get on in the world like this. Mighty queer he was that night, I remember, though his tongue was so glib. Rum thing altogether, now I come to think of it!"
For some minutes Ben appeared to be lost in speculations too deep for words. At last he gave a low chuckle.
"Wonder now if I could work it?" he continued. "Sure enough I've got precious little to go upon, but if I'm on the right tack and play my cards well, I may be able to put the screw on somewhere. 'Conscience makes cowards of us all,' and if there was anything fishy about it, he'll know, even if I don't! At any rate it's well worth trying."
When Jenkins returned with the towels about half an hour later, Ben walked back with him a little way upon the road.
"Seeing your master's so rich I suppose he's pestered with letters of all sorts?" he said, "begging, and such-like?"
"Crowds," replied the footman, "mostly circulars though, enough to light a bonfire every week."
"Does he ever get threatening letters, do you happen to know?" enquired Ben, "from socialists for example, who hold it a sin to own more than your neighbours do."
"Not that I'm aware of," answered Jenkins, "but he doesn't do me the honour of inviting me to share his correspondence, so you see I've no means of judging."
It was two days after the above conversation when Jenkins again joined Ben as he was having his usual glass at the inn.
"It's curious you should have asked me that question about the socialists," he said, "for I do believe old Field got a warning from one of them only this morning. He turned green enough for anything when he read the letter."