For a long time, as I sat in the cosy little parlour, the table of which was dark and polished with the ale of generations spilt upon it, we chatted about the weather, the prospects of harvest, and the latest iniquity of taxation, until in a careless way I remarked—
“I suppose in summer you have lots of visitors down from London.—I mean the people who have big houses about here entertain a lot?”
“Oh, I dunno!” replied the old fellow, sipping his glass which he was taking with me. “The Joiceys do have a lot o’ visitors, and so do the Strongs, but Mrs Olliffe’s been away, an’ has only just come back.”
“And Mr King?”
“He’s been away too. Ridgehill’s been shut up and half the servants away on ’oliday.”
“And they are back now?”
“Yes; Mrs Olliffe’s been abroad—so the butler told me yesterday. But there—” and his lips closed suddenly, as though he had something to say, but feared to utter it.
“Rather a funny lot—so I’ve heard, eh?” I remarked.
“Yes. Nobody can quite make ’em out—to tell the truth. Only the night before last, or, rather, about a quarter to five in the morning, Mrs Olliffe, her brother and another gentleman went by ’ere in a car on their way ’ome. They’d been out all night, so the chauffeur told me yesterday. Mr King drove the car.”
“Out all night!” I echoed, in sudden wonder.