“You inherit the place, I think, from your late aunt, Lady Berrick?”
“Yes.”
The tone of the reply was not encouraging; Romayne felt no interest in talking of Ten Acres Lodge. Father Benwell persisted.
“I was told by Mrs. Eyrecourt,” he went on “that Lady Berrick had some fine pictures. Are they still at the Lodge?”
“Certainly. I couldn’t live in a house without pictures.”
Father Benwell looked at Winterfield. “Another taste in common between you and Mr. Romayne,” he said, “besides your liking for dogs.”
This at once produced the desired result. Romayne eagerly invited Winterfield to see his pictures. “There are not many of them,” he said. “But they are really worth looking at. When will you come?”
“The sooner the better,” Winterfield answered, cordially. “Will to-morrow do—by the noonday light?”
“Whenever you please. Your time is mine.”
Among his other accomplishments, Father Benwell was a chess-player. If his thoughts at that moment had been expressed in language, they would have said, “Check to the queen.” [ [!-- H2 anchor --] ]