“Has the other gentleman any luggage?”
“Yes, this large black bag belongs to him.” Janvard stooped and read: “Tom Bristow, Esq., Passenger to Bath.” “Quite strange to me, that name,” he muttered to himself. At this moment the boots came, and shouldering the luggage, hurried with it upstairs.
“They have ordered dinner, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you hear them say how long they were likely to stay here?”
“No, sir.”
“Wait on them yourself at dinner. Bear in mind all that they talk about, and report it to me afterwards.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pierre Janvard retired to his sanctum considerably disturbed in mind. Was the fresh arrival any relation or connection of the dead Lionel Dering, or was it merely one of those coincidences of name common enough in everyday life? These were the two questions that he put to himself again and again.
One thing was quite evident to him. Himself unseen, he must contrive to see this unknown Richard Dering. If there were a possibility of the slightest shadow of danger springing either from this or from any other quarter, it behoved him to be on his guard. He would see these people, after which, if requisite, he would at once write to Mr. Kester St. George for instructions.