“I shall not take Ferrar as chief. What are you talking of, Mr. Pym? Ferrar is not qualified.”
“Ferrar is qualifying himself now; he is about to pass,” retorted Pym. “Good-afternoon, sir.”
Had Pym looked back as he turned off, he would have seen Sir Dace Fontaine, who came, in his slow, lumbering manner, round the corner. Jack, who had been introduced to him, stopped to speak. But not a word could Sir Dace answer, for staring at the retreating figure of Pym.
“Does my sight deceive me?” he exclaimed. “Who is that man?”
“His name is Pym,” said Jack. “He has been my first mate on board the Rose of Delhi.”
Sir Dace Fontaine looked blacker than thunder. “What is he doing down here?”
“I was wondering what,” said Jack. “At first I thought he might have come down after me on some errand or other.”
Sir Dace said no more. Remarking that we should meet again in the evening, he went his way, and we went ours.
For that evening the Squire gave a dinner, to which the Fontaines were coming, and old Paul the lawyer, and the Letsoms, and the Ashtons from Timberdale Court. Charles Ashton, the parson, was staying with them: he would come in handy for the grace in place of Herbert Tanerton, who had a real sore throat this time, and must stay at home.
But now it should be explained that, up to this time, none of us had the smallest notion that there was anything between Pym and Verena Fontaine, or that Pym was related to Sir Dace. Had Jack known either the one fact or the other, he might not have said what he did at the Squire’s dinner-table. Not that he said much.