And this was the man of whom both Lolita and Lady Stanchester lived in such mortal terror!
He took a cigarette, lit it, and leaned back in the chair with an easy air of comfort, watching the smoke ascend.
“Pretty country about here, it seems,” he remarked presently. “The drive from Kettering station is a typical bit of rural English scenery. The green of the fields is refreshing after the scorched lands near the Equator. What’s the partridge season like? It seems an age since I shot a bird in England.”
“Oh! They’re fairly strong,” I replied. “The spell of wet was against them in the early season, but I believe the bags are quite up to the average.”
“And who’s here just now?”
I enumerated a list of his fellow-guests, in which I saw he was greatly interested.
“There’s Lord and Lady Cotterstock, Sir Henry Kipton, General Bryan, Captain Harper, the Honourable Violet Middleton, Count Bernheim, the German Ambassador, Lady Barford, Mr Samuel Woodford—”
“Sammy Woodford!” he exclaimed, interrupting me. “How long has he been here?”
“Ever since the opening of the season. Are you acquainted?”
“Well—not exactly,” he responded evasively. “I’ve heard a good deal about him from mutual friends. I’ll be glad to meet him. He’s the man who was in the Chitral affair. They swear by him in India.”