He noticed that Dobbs had been rather hurrying over his narrative for the last few minutes, and had refused a second instalment of whisky which the young man pressed upon him.
The reasons for his fidgetiness and indifference to alcohol were soon explained. It happened to be Saturday night, and there was always a brisk business doing at the end of the week in certain portions of the house. The hotel proper, at this dead season of the year, had practically no custom. With the exception of the “literary gentleman in search of local colour,” who so ostentatiously left his manuscript about for curious eyes to see, there was no resident.
It had occurred to this honest and faithful servant of the good old school that he could render sorely needed help downstairs, and was wasting his employer’s time in pleasant but profitless conversation with this affable stranger.
“You will excuse me, sir, I am sure,” he said with a little cough of embarrassment, “but Saturday night is a busy night with us, and we are short-handed downstairs. Will you forgive me if I run away now, thanking you very much for the whisky, sir,” he concluded with his customary old-fashioned courtesy.
“Run away, Dobbs, by all means,” was the cheery answer. “Hope I haven’t kept you too long, but knowing Sir George just a little, I was awfully interested in all you told me.”
The old man bowed, and withdrew. After all, to-morrow would do as well for Sellars to put his question. Mrs. Morrice had come from Sussex, and instinct, coupled with the association of Sir George Brookes, told him that he had fixed on just the right spot, and would be able to kill two birds with one stone as soon as he got Dobbs again into a reminiscent mood.
After the old waiter’s departure, Sellars set himself to weigh the value of the information he had gleaned. Was it worth much? On the death of the father, the son had succeeded to a barren inheritance; he could not cut any dash on the revenue derived from this deeply mortgaged estate. And yet, so long as Sellars had known him, he was making a brave show. Well, of course that fortune left by a distant relative accounted for this, if the tale of that fortune were true. Who and what was this benevolent relation? That might be a subject for further investigation. His club acquaintance might again prove useful.
Two days elapsed before he saw the communicative Dobbs again. The good old fellow suffered from some internal trouble which laid him up now and then, and he had one of these attacks late on the Saturday night.
By the time he was ready to resume his duties the letter from Lane had arrived. Needless to say, Sellars was much surprised at the information it contained, and also at his friend’s insight in having pounced upon this particular portion of the story as requiring verification. Sellars was pretty cute in his own way, but he had to admit that in the qualities of imagination and intuition he had to give pride of place to the older and more experienced man.
It opened out a new region of speculation. There could be assumed a close connection between Mrs. Morrice and the elegant man-about-town, from the fact that they were said to be related pretty closely by marriage. But if this cable spoke the truth, that marriage was a myth and had been invented by a pair of conspirators from some motive which could not at present be defined. Truly, as Lane had remarked in the closing passage of his brief note, there was a mystery in the Morrice household which it was necessary to unravel in the course of their general researches.