The codfish came up all right, and the oyster sauce was in Molly’s best style—made of cream, and plenty of oysters in it. The turkey was fine: the plum-pudding better than good. Hugh and Lena sat at the table; and altogether we had a downright merry dinner. Not a sober face amongst us, except Herbert Tanerton’s: as to his face—well, you might have thought he was perpetually saying “For what we are going to receive——” It had struck eight ever so long when the last nut was eaten.
“Will you run over with me to my aunt’s, Johnny?” whispered Grace as she passed my chair. “I should like to go at once, if you will.”
So I followed her out of the room. She put her wraps on, and we went trudging across the road in the moonlight, over the crunching snow. Grace’s foot went into a soft rut, and she gave a squeal.
“I shall have to borrow a shoe whilst this dries,” said she. “Do you care to come in, Johnny?”
“No, I’ll go back. I can run over for you presently.”
“Don’t do that. One of the servants will see me safe across.”
“All right. Tell Mrs. Coney what a jolly dinner it was. We were all sorry she did not come.”
Grace went in and shut the door. I was rushing back through our own gate, when some tall fellow glided out of the laurels, and put his hand on my arm. The moonlight fell upon his face and its reddish beard—and, to my intense surprise, I recognized Benjamin Rymer. I knew him then for the man who had been dodging in and out of the shrubs the night but one before.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. “It is, as I am well aware, a very unusual and unceremonious way of accosting you, or any one else, but I want particularly to speak with you, in private, Mr. Ludlow.”
“You were here on Sunday night!”