“This place seems a pretty spot,” the shabby wayfarer went on. “How far is it to Northampton?”
“Twelve miles.”
The stranger sighed, glanced across at the old grandfather clock, and went on eating. There was silence after this, broken only by the buzzing of the flies against the window close to him, and the placing or adjusting of the tumblers which Warr had gravely begun to polish.
“Let’s see,” remarked the stranger reflectively at last, “if this is Sibberton, the old Earl of Stanchester lives here, I suppose?”
“He did live here, but he died a year ago.”
“And young Lord Sibberton has come into the property—eh? Why, he must be one of the richest men in England,” the fellow remarked with something of a sneer.
“They say he is,” was Warr’s reply.
Mention of the name of Stanchester caused me to prick my ears, for I had been private secretary to the old Earl and was now acting in that same capacity to the young man who had recently succeeded to the estates.
“And his sister, the fair one—Lady Lolita they call her—is she married yet?” inquired the half-famished man.
“No. She still lives with her brother and his wife up at the Hall.”