Mr. Dobbs looked a little pale and shaken by the suffering he had been through, but he was as attentive and genial as usual, and he accepted with alacrity the good dose of whisky which Sellars now always supplied him with.
When he removed the last of the dinner-things and it was evident he was quite ready for one of those long chats which had become a feature of their relations, Sellars put his question carelessly as he always did, not to excite the suspicion that he was not what he seemed, a literary man come to this quiet spot just for a short visit.
“By the way, Dobbs, I wonder if you ever came across a Miss Larchester, Lettice Larchester. I fancy she came from this part of the country. I don’t know her exact age now, but I suppose she would be getting on for fifty.”
Before he finished speaking, he knew by the gleam in the old waiter’s still bright eyes that he was on the right track—his intuition that in looking for Sir George Clayton-Brookes he would come on traces of Lettice Larchester, was correct.
“I should think I did, sir, and a bonnier, handsomer young girl I never came across. Of course, she never came here, but I got to know her a bit by meeting her often in the village, and she always had a cheerful ‘Good-morning, Mr. Dobbs,’ and a bright smile for me. Her father we often saw; he was one of our regular customers, a jolly, pleasant fellow when all right, but apt to show a rather ugly temper in his cups. And that I am sorry to say was very frequently.”
Mr. Dobbs lifted his tumbler to his lips with an expressive gesture and took a deep draught. “Too fond of this, sir. Many a night he’s gone home to that poor girl in a shocking state. I used to pity her from the bottom of my heart. And no mother, sir; she died when her daughter was born. Only them two, in that little cottage at the end of the village; Vine Cottage, it is called; you may have noticed it in your walks.”
Yes, Sellars had noticed it; in taking up the investigating business he had trained himself to very close habits of observation, of noting the most trivial details.
He settled himself comfortably in his easy-chair and proceeded to fill a large briar pipe.
“Fire away, Dobbs, and tell me all you know of this Miss Larchester. It’s not Saturday night, you know, and we can’t do better than a yarn and a drink.”
But before embarking on a fresh history which he was always pleased to do, the man put a question himself with a rather deprecating air; for he was a very delicate-minded old fellow, and although he was always ready to satisfy the curiosity of other persons, he hated to appear curious himself.