“Oh,” said Tom, arriving on the scene at this juncture, “you there, Ratty? you’d better clear out. All the grub’s done, and you’re not wanted here. We didn’t ask you—took care not to. Rosalind’s not here. This is Jilly’s and my party. Isn’t it, you chaps?” The chaps appealed to, His Grace, the doctor, and one or two of the other guests, corroborated this statement.
Mr Ratman leant comfortably against the wall.
“Flattering reception,” said he. “I am inclined to take your lordship’s advice and go; but before I do, may I ask your lordship again if you really do not remember me?”
“I never saw you before, sir,” said His Grace; “and allow me to add, I have no desire to see you again.”
“Dear Duke!” whispered Jill encouragingly, putting her hand in his.
“Odd the changes a few years make,” rejoined Mr Ratman. “I presume your lordship’s memory can carry you back a little time—say twenty years?”
“What of that, sir?”
“Merely that if that is so, you probably can remember a lad named Roger Ingleton who lived in this house, son of the old Squire.”
There was a dead silence now, and the Duke looked in a startled way at the speaker.
“I see you remember that boy,” said the intruder; “and you probably heard the story of my—I mean his quarrel with his father, and also heard of his supposed death. Now, your grace, put twenty years on to that boy, and suppose the story of his death was a myth, then say again you don’t remember me.”