“Where have we met that fellow before? I can’t remember.”
“Neither can I. His face is somehow familiar. I’m sure we’ve seen him somewhere!”
“That’s what the Parson says. Write to Max at Whitby, and tell him to come over on some pretext or other and get a glance at the man. Post the letter yourself to-night.”
“Perhaps the fellow is afraid of his plate,” the valet exclaimed in an undertone, laughing.
“He needn’t be. It’s all ‘B’ electro—not worth taking away in a dung-cart. The only thing I’ve seen is the old woman’s necklet, and that she keeps in her room, I fancy. If the sparklers are real they’re worth a couple of thousand to the Dutchman.”
“They are certainly real. She’s got them out of the bank in your honour. Her maid told me so to-day. And she means, I believe, to give a big dinner-party for some of the county people to meet you.”
“Are you sure of this?” asked his master quickly.
“The cook told the footman, who told me. The housekeeper to-day ordered a lot of things from London, and to-morrow the invitations are to be sent out.”
“Are people coming here to dine and sleep?”
“Yes. Eight bedrooms are to be prepared.”