The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing
Far enough up the hill to view the blossoming orchards all over the Valley and the distant blue of the lake between the hills, Langford stopped at a large, two-storied dwelling house set in expansive grounds and almost hidden among shade trees.
He walked right in, and Phil followed him.
A matronly woman, of portly dimensions, met them in the hallway.
“Mrs. Clunie,” cried Langford, “I’ve caught you a new, live lodger fresh off the train to-day. He will just fit the spare room over the way from mine.”
Mrs. Clunie looked her prospective tenant over critically.
“Mrs. Clunie,––Mr. Ralston,” continued Langford.
Phil bowed, and Mrs. Clunie nodded in a strictly non-committal way.
“His father is Lord Athelhurst-Ralston of Ecclefechan, Mrs. Clunie. He has come out here for his health.”
“Mr. Langford,––that’ll do,” said the landlady severely. “There was no’ a Ralston in the whole o’ Ecclefechan let alone a Lord What-ye-call-him Ralston, when I left twenty years syne, and I ha’e my doots if there’s one there noo. Don’t be makin’ a fool o’ the young man.