Ryecroft, though Irish himself, is of less communicative nature. A native of Dublin, he has Saxon in his blood, with some of its secretiveness; and the Major finds a difficulty in drawing him in reference to the particular reason of his interrupted journey to Paris. He essays, however, with as much skill as he can command, making approach as follows:
“What a time it seems, Ryecroft, since you and I have been together—an age! And yet, if I’m not wrong in my reckoning, it was but a year ago. Yes; just twelve months, or thereabout. You remember, we met at the ‘Bag,’ and dined there, with Russel, of the Artillery.”
“Of course I remember it.”
“I’ve seen Russel since; about three months ago, when I was over in England. And by the way, ’twas from him I last heard of yourself.”
“What had he to say about me?”
“Only that you were somewhere down west—on the Wye I think—salmon fishing. I know you were always good at casting a fly.”
“That all he said?”
“Well, no;” admits the Major, with a sly, inquisitive glance at the other’s face. “There was a trifle of a codicil added to the information about your whereabouts and occupation.”
“What, may I ask?”
“That you’d been wonderfully successful in your angling; had hooked a very fine fish—a big one, besides—and sold out of the army; so that you might be free to play it on your line; in fine, that you’d captured, safe landed, and intended staying by it for the rest of your days. Come, old boy! Don’t be blushing about the thing; you know you can trust Charley Mahon. Is it true?”