“What kind of man is this Morini?” asked Macbean, in an idle tone.
“Oh, rather gentlemanly, with a lot of elegant pose. Speaks English very well for a foreigner, and smokes a very excellent brand of cigar. But, if the truth were told, he’s looked upon here with a good deal of suspicion. Ill-natured people say that he’s a foreign adventurer who comes here in hiding from the police,” he added, laughing.
The young man blew a long cloud of smoke from his lips, and remained silent. He was trying to recall a face he had seen—the face of a man, evidently a foreigner, who had passed them in a dogcart as they were on the road home from Orton. The man’s features had puzzled him ever since. They were familiar, yet he could not recollect in what circumstances they had met before.
In his position as secretary to the Member for South-West Norfolk he met many men, yet somehow he held a distinct idea that in the misty past this man had created upon him some impression of evil.
“You recollect,” he exclaimed at last, “that just before we came to the cross-roads to Calthorpe we passed a dogcart coming out from Rugby, with a groom in dark green livery.”
“Yes. It was Morini’s cart. The man in it is a guest at Orton,” was the rector’s reply. “More than that,” he added, “he’s said to be engaged—or about to be engaged—to the girl you admire so much.”
“Oh, that’s interesting!” remarked Macbean. “Do you know the man’s name?”
“He’s a young French count named Dubard. I’ve met him here several times; he seems quite a decent fellow for a Frenchman.”
“Dubard? Dubard?” repeated the young man aloud, starting forward as though a sudden revelation had flashed upon him. “Surely he can’t be Jules Dubard, the—”
“The what?” asked the rector quickly.