A few days later, the day before the birthday, Captain Oliphant received a telegram couched in the following lordly terms—
“Arrive 5.30. Send trap to meet me.—Ratman.”
He frowned to himself as he read it. The tone did not betoken peace. It rather called to mind a good many unpleasant reflections, the chief of which was that Mr Ratman would find matters no further advanced as regarded the widow, the heir, or the tutor. The only comfort was that he could hardly make himself disagreeable about the bill.
The coachman was sent down with the dogcart; but if Mr Ratman expected any further demonstration of welcome, he was disappointed. Mrs Ingleton was in bed; Jill was dining at the Rectory; Roger and Armstrong were taking a long ride; Tom was poaching on the Maxfield preserves. Only Captain Oliphant was at home.
“Oh, you’re here to receive me, are you?” snarled the visitor. “How long has it taken you to organise this flattering reception, I should like to know?”
“I really have nothing to do with other persons’ arrangements,” said the captain. “If they happen to be out, it’s not my concern.”
“But it’s mine. You ought to have sent the heir down to meet me—I’ve not seen him yet—and had those girls of yours here to give me afternoon tea. Where are they?”
The captain attempted to explain.
“That won’t do for me,” said the visitor, “not by any means. They should have been on the spot. When did the tutor leave?”
“He is still here.”