Cleek gave one look at the expensively cut article of footgear, then he lounged across the yard.
"That's a pretty tough job, isn't it?" said he offhandedly. The groom looked up, but meeting the visitor's disarming smile, only gave vent to a grunt.
"Should think it is a tough job," he muttered. "They're his lordship's boots, an' 'ow 'e comes to make 'em in such a state beats me to fits. Fair caked with mud, and 'im in bed with a sprained ankle. It's that valet of 'is, I s'pose——" He broke off, then looked questioningly at Cleek.
"I've lost my way," he said, plunging his hand into his pocket. "I strolled down a path from the lawns in front of the house. Which one will take me back?"
"First path to the right, sir, and thank you," said the gratified groom, and a minute later found Cleek back at the spot where Ailsa had left him.
He certainly had to admit that the whole affair was most perplexing, and he was still pondering over the various points of the case when Ailsa Lorne returned, and for a few moments they paced the lawn in silence; then Cleek turned with a little smile.
"I suppose we shall have to go and meet the General," said he serenely. "Shall we meet Lady Katharine's father as well?"
"Oh, dear, no! The man's in bed with a sprained ankle. Can't put his foot to the ground."
"Oh! Indeed? Then that explains it, of course. I wondered."
"Explains it? Explains what?"