“Well dressed? Spoke like a gentleman?”
“Oh, quite like a gentleman, and very well dressed indeed.”
“Just as MacEveril was that morning, on the strength of getting to the picnic,” ran through Tom Chandler’s thoughts. “Did he come off here first, I wonder?”
“He seemed to know all about you, sir, just as though he lived at your house,” said Stephenson to the Squire; “and Mrs. Todhetley sent him for her brooch that day. Perhaps you may know, sir, who it was she sent?”
“Sent! why, nobody,” spluttered the Squire. “It must have been a planned thing. The brooch is not broken.”
“He said the little pink flower had got broken off, and that Mrs. Todhetley did it with her shawl,” persisted Stephenson, unable to stare away his perplexity. And I think we were all feeling perplexed too.
“He knew what the brooch cost, and that it was bought for a wedding present, and that Mrs. Todhetley kept the brooch for herself because the wedding did not come off,” went on Stephenson. “How could I suppose, sir, it was anybody but your own son? Why once I called him ‘Mr. Todhetley;’ I remember it quite well; and he did not tell me I was mistaken. Rely upon it, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, Squire Todhetley, that it is some young gentleman who is intimate at your house and familiar with all its ways.”
“Hang him for a young rogue!” retorted the Squire.
“And your own name was on the note, sir, which he bade me notice, and all! And—and I don’t see how it was possible to help falling into the mistake that he came from you,” concluded Stephenson, with a slightly injured accent.
Upon which the Squire, having had time to take in the bearings of the matter, veered round altogether to the same opinion, and said so, and shook hands with Stephenson when we departed.