Things had not been going well with Percy Rimbolt since we saw him last, six or eight months ago, just before Jeffreys’ expulsion from the house in Clarges Street. Mrs Rimbolt had some reason to modify her self-congratulations on that occasion, when Percy and Raby, who, it will be remembered, had been out riding at the time, returned home. Percy returned in high spirits; his new horse had turned out a beauty, and the canter in the park had acted like a tonic.
“Hullo, mother!” he said, as his parent came into the hall to meet him. “We’ve had a grand time, Raby and I. We saw the Prince of Wales and W.G. Grace, and the Queen, and everybody, and I gave Raby two hundred yards from the corner and ran her down before we were off Knightsbridge, and nearly got hauled up for furious riding. I say, I mean to make father get a horse for old Jeff, and we’ll go out early in the mornings, when the Row’s empty, and try handicaps, eh, Raby? Where’s Jeff, I say?” and he ran whistling upstairs.
His mother, with some premonitory misgivings followed him.
“Where are you, Jeff?” she heard him shout. “I say, mother,” he added, as Mrs Rimbolt approached, “where’s Jeff? Is he out?”
“He is,” said Mrs Rimbolt solemnly. “I want to speak to you, Percy.”
“All right. But I say, when will he be in? He said he couldn’t leave his work this afternoon. I want him to see Bendigo before he goes round to the stables.”
“You had better tell the groom he need not wait, and then please come to my room, Percy,” said Mrs Rimbolt.
Percy shouted down to Walker to send away the horse, and followed his mother into her boudoir.
“Percy, my dear boy,” began the lady, “I am sorry to say I have just had to perform a very unpleasant duty. You can hardly understand—”
“What about—anything about Jeff?” interrupted the boy, jumping at the truth.