“I don’t like the look of that Italian butler, Tommy. Do you know I’ve a very strange fancy?”
“Of what?”
“That I’ve met that fellow before, somewhere or other.”
“I sincerely hope not,” was the clergyman’s response.
“Where I’ve met him I can’t remember. By Jove! It’ll be awkward for us if he recollects me.”
“Then we’ll have to watch him. I wonder if—”
And the Parson crossed noiselessly to the bedroom door and opened it suddenly.
As he did so there was the distinct sound of some one scuffling round the corner in the corridor. Both men detected it.
There had been an eavesdropper! They were suspected!
At dinner that night the pair cast furtive glances at the thin, clean-shaven face of the middle-aged Italian butler, whose head was prematurely bald, but whose manners as a servant were perfect. Ferrini was the name by which his mistress addressed him, and it was apparent that he was very devoted to her. The young footman was English—a Cockney, by his twang.