“People called Deverill, at Foullis Castle?” asked Sir Angus.
“Yes,” replied Professor Biggleswade.
“How curious! I am going to the Deverills, too,” said the third man.
This man was the Right Honorable Viscount Boyne, the renowned Empire Builder and Administrator, around whose solitary and remote life popular imagination had woven many legends. He looked at the world through tired gray eyes, and the heavy drooping blonde mustache seemed tired, too, and had dragged down the tired face into deep furrows. He was smoking a long black cigar.
“I suppose we may as well travel down together,” said Sir Angus, not very cordially.
Lord Boyne said courteously: “I have a reserved carriage. The railway company is always good enough to place one at my disposal. It would give me great pleasure if you would share it.”
The invitation was accepted, and the three men crossed the busy, crowded platform to take their seats in the great express train. A porter laden with an incredible load of paraphernalia, trying to make his way through the press, happened to jostle Sir Angus McCurdie. He rubbed his shoulder fretfully.
“Why the whole land should be turned into a bear garden on account of this exploded superstition of Christmas is one of the anomalies of modern civilization. Look at this insensate welter of fools traveling in wild herds to disgusting places merely because it’s Christmas!”
“You seem to be traveling yourself, McCurdie,” said Lord Boyne.
“Yes—and why the devil I’m doing it, I’ve not the faintest notion,” replied Sir Angus.