The butler looked at him doubtfully. Had he offered a bribe he would have refused information, but Collins was too old a hand for that.
“Well, seeing as poor Sir James is gone, I don’t think it matters. It is Mr. Eric.”
“Mr. Eric what?”
“I thought you would know, being a friend of the family. Mr. Eric Sanders, Sir James’ private secretary,” and he looked at Collins with suspicion.
He saw the look. “Oh, that’s it,” said he. “Of course, I ought to have guessed, and how does his suit prosper?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” said the other.
“I mean are they engaged, or just likely to become so?”
“Sir James wouldn’t hear of it, and last time Mr. Eric was here they had words over it, for I heard them, but I must really be going.”
“All right, John, I will wait here till Miss Mabel wants to see me. You might bring me any papers you have.” The butler bowed and made his way to the house.
“So that’s it, is it?” he said to himself. “There are at least two candidates for honours. We are getting on.” The papers told him nothing. Sinclair had been to work, and apart from a bald statement of the facts, and obituary notices, there was nothing striking. Of course, there were leading articles on the perils of foreign anarchists and on the saintly character of the deceased, but this was old stock-in-trade, kept ready for any assassination of a notable person which might occur, and adapted to circumstances.