“Well! if it wasn’t that I am in Boulogne instead of on the banks of the river Wye, I’d swear that I saw a man inside that doorway whom I met not many days ago in the shire of Hereford.”
“What sort of a man?”
“A priest!”
“Oh! black’s no mark among sheep. The prêtres are all alike, as peas or policemen. I’m often puzzled myself to tell one from t’other.”
Satisfied with this explanation, the ex-Hussar says nothing further on the subject, and they continue on to the Rue Tintelleries.
Entering his house, the Major calls for “matayrials,” and they sit down to the steaming punch. But before their glasses are half emptied, there is a ring at the door bell, and soon after a voice inquiring for “Captain Ryecroft.” The entrance-hall being contiguous to the dining-room where they are seated, they hear all this.
“Who can be asking for me?” queries Ryecroft, looking towards his host.
The Major cannot tell—cannot think—who. But the answer is given by his Irish manservant entering with a card, which he presents to Captain Ryecroft, saying:—
“It’s for you, yer honner.” The name on the card is—
“Mr George Shenstone.”