Chief among the furniture was a black oak dresser with an inscription on the panel, reading, “John and Annie Tumm, 1671,” but all the rest was new and neither good nor artistic. The “pictures” consisted of the faded photographs of a past generation, framed funeral cards and a Sunday School certificate awarded to Elizabeth Tumm, 1874. The black oak dresser and that document bridged 200 years of Tumms.
“Comfortable quarters,” Mr. Pepster remarked, as he sat in a big wicker chair toasting his toes at the fire and sipping at a glass of hot whisky.
“Very,” I agreed, being similarly situated and occupied at the other side of the hearthrug. There was another long silence between us, which again Pepster broke.
“Do you know,” he said, “I am a little worried—no, that is hardly the word—a little interested in Sir William Clevedon.”
“Yes?”
I did not add that Sir William Clevedon was just then the centre of all my own inquiries, but I was curious to hear what he had to say about it.
“You see,” Pepster went on, “he has never been to take up his title or the money. The title I could understand. There are too many of them about in these days to make any of them really worth while. But he stands in also for the cash—there was no will and Billy Clevedon takes the lot. Where is he?”
“Do you mean that he has disappeared?”
“Well, that’s rather a long word. But nobody seems to know where he is.”
“You have made inquiries?”