“When did he die?” inquired Mr Ratman, still examining the picture.
“Oh, ever so long ago—before the old Squire married Auntie. I say, come and have a punt about with my new football, will you?”
“Go and get it. I’ll be down presently. I like pictures, and shall just take a look at these first!”
Tom bustled off, wondering what Mr Ratman could see in the pictures to allure him from the joys of football.
To tell the truth, Mr Ratman was not a great artist. But the portrait of the lost Roger appeared to interest him, as did also the sight of an open letter, hastily laid down by the owner on the writing-table.
Something in the handwriting of the letter particularly aroused the curiosity of the trespasser, who, being, as has been said, of an inquiring disposition, ventured to look at it more closely.
“To be given unopened into the hands of Roger Ingleton, junior, on his twentieth birthday.”
The coast was conveniently clear for Mr Ratman, as, fired with a zeal for information, he slipped the letter from the envelope and, with half an eye on the door, hastily read it. As he did so, he flushed a little, and having read the letter once, read it again. Then he quickly replaced it in its cover, and laying it where he had discovered it, beat a rapid retreat.
He played football badly that afternoon, so that his young companion’s opinion of him lowered considerably. Nor was either sorry when the ceremony was over, and the bell warned them to return to their quarters and prepare for the evening’s festivities.
Mr Ratman dressed with special care, spending some time before the mirror in an endeavour to set off his person to the best advantage. As the reader has already been told, Mr Ratman retained some of the traces of a handsome youth. The fires of honour and sobriety were extinguished, but his well-shaped head and clear-cut features still weathered the storm, and suggested that if their owner was not good-looking now, he might once have been.