The "native," who had sandy hair and a gray beard, and immense sandy eyebrows, turned upon him fiercely, shaking a long finger in his face, as if it was a sword.
"Mind you," he growled, "Miss Kennedy's the only man among you! You talk of your scholars! Gar!—jealousy and envy. But I've remembered her—posterity shall know her when the head of the Egyptian department is dead and forgotten."
"Thank you," said Lord Jocelyn, as the man left him. "I am likely to be forwarded at this rate."
He tried again.
This time it happened to be none other than Mr. Bunker. The events of the last few weeks were preying upon his mind—he thought continually of handcuffs and prisons. He was nervous and agitated.
But he replied courteously, and pointed out the house.
"Ah!" said Lord Jocelyn, "that is the house which an old man, whom I have just asked, said was Caroline Coppin's."
"Old man—what old man?" (Mr. Bunker turned pale—it seemed as if the atmosphere itself was full of dangers.) "'Ouse was whose? That 'ouse, sir, is mine—mine, do you hear?"
Lord Jocelyn described the old man—in fact, he was yet within sight.
"I know him," said Mr. Bunker. "He's mad, that old man—silly with age; nobody minds him. That 'ouse, sir, is mine."