“O, yes.”
“Old acquaintance; friend, I presume? No enemy, I hope?”
“If it be the son of a Sir George Shenstone, of Herefordshire, I can’t call him either friend or enemy; and as I know nobody else of the name, I suppose it must be he. If so, what he wants with me is a question I can no more answer than the man in the moon. I must get the answer from himself. Can I take the liberty of asking him into your house, Mahon?”
“Certainly, my dear boy! Bring him in here, if you like, and let him join us.”
“Thanks, Major!” interrupts Ryecroft. “But no, I’d prefer first having a word with him alone. Instead of drinking, he may want fighting with me.”
“O ho!” ejaculates the Major. “Murtagh!” to the servant, an old soldier of the 18th, “show the gentleman into the drawing-room.”
“Mr Shenstone and I,” proceeds Ryecroft in explanation, “have but the very slightest acquaintance. I’ve only met him a few times in general company, the last at a ball—a private one—just three nights ago. ’Twas that very morning I met the priest, I supposed we’d seen up there. ’Twould seem as if everybody on the Wyeside had taken the fancy to follow me into France.”
“Ha—ha—ha! About the prêtre, no doubt you’re mistaken. And maybe this isn’t your man, either. The same name, you’re sure!”
“Quite. The Herefordshire baronet’s son is George, as his father, to whose title he is heir. I never heard of his having any other—”
“Stay!” interrupts the Major, again glancing at the card, “here’s something to help identification—an address—Ormeston Hall.”