“Half his time he was abroad—in Tunis, Algeria, or Egypt. He seemed extremely fond of North Africa. Why, I could never discover.”
I tried to turn the conversation upon Shaw and Asta, but she was far too wary to be drawn into an admission that she knew them, and presently, after she had taken tea with me, she left.
Upon her card I found her address, and resolved to make a few inquiries concerning her. Therefore, two days later, I took train to Bath, and found that she lived in a fine old mansion called Ridgehill Manor, near Kelston, about three miles out of the city.
At the little old-fashioned inn at Kelston village I had tea in the best room, and began to chat about the people in the neighbourhood.
“Ah, yes. Mrs Olliffe’s a widow,” said the stout, white-bearded landlord, when I mentioned the Manor. “She’s been here close on two years now. Everybody likes her. Last year she kept a host of company always, lots of well-known folk, but this summer there haven’t been very many visitors. Scarcely anybody except Mr Nicholson—and he’s always there, more or less.”
“Nicholson!” I cried, startled at mention of the name. “Was he Mr Guy Nicholson, from Titmarsh?”
“I don’t know where he comes from, sir, but his name is Guy, sir. He hasn’t been here for a week or two now. He often comes over on his motor-cycle. Sometimes he calls in here, for I do all the station-work for Mrs Olliffe. He’s a very nice, affable young gentleman. I only wish there were a few more of his sort about.”
“He’s a friend of Mrs Olliffe’s, you say? Has he been coming here for long?”
“Ever since she’s been here. They used to say he came to see Miss Farquhar, a young lady who was staying up at the Manor. But he comes just as much since she’s left. Ah!” he added, “now I recollect. Only a week ago I took a parcel to the station from the Manor addressed to Mr Nicholson at Titmarsh, near Corby, I think it was.”
I asked the landlord to describe the young man we were discussing, and he gave me an exact description of Guy himself.