The dead quiet of the night was unbroken save for the scratching of the rector’s pen, for the village of Thornby, like all agricultural villages, goes to bed early and rises with the dawn. The solemn bell in the old church-tower struck ten as Mr Sinclair scribbled the superscription, blotted it, and rose from the table to fill his own pipe.
“Why, George, my boy, you’re glum to-night. What’s the matter?”
“I really didn’t know I was,” laughed his nephew. “I was only thinking. And I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Nothing disturbs me—except babies in church,” declared the big fellow, laughing deeply. He was a good type of the easy-going bachelor parson in the enjoyment of a comfortable living and popularity in local society. He was fond of golf and cricket, was a good judge of a horse, a good shot, and frequently rode to hounds.
He filled his well-coloured briar carefully, lit it, and then casting himself into the chair opposite his nephew, said with a laugh—
“I noticed you were very chummy with Mary Morini. Well, what do you think of her?”
“Very charming,” responded the young man, rather annoyed at his uncle’s chaff.
“All the men about here rave over her beauty—and they have cause to, no doubt. She’s a very entertaining companion and possesses a keen sense of humour—one of those girls who attract a man without being aware of it. That’s the chief essential in a woman’s grace.”
“But who are these Morinis?” inquired Macbean, removing his pipe from his mouth. “Nobody seems to know exactly who or what they are.”
“You’re quite right,” responded his uncle, in a rather changed tone. “Quite between ourselves, I’ve heard that question asked a good many times. Morini himself seems a bit of a recluse, for he seldom goes anywhere. Indeed, I haven’t spoken to him more than half a dozen times in my life. But Madame Morini and her daughter are taken up by the local people because of their apparent affluence and because they rent Orton from Lady Straker.”