“Yes. And the Sandys are away in town, aren’t they?”
“They went up yesterday. Mr Sandys and his daughter are always at Park Lane on Wednesdays, I understand. I saw in the paper this morning that the party to-night has a rather political flavour, for two Cabinet Ministers and their wives are to be there.”
“I suppose Mr Sandys must be very rich?”
“Immensely, they say. I heard the other day that he is one of the confidential advisers of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, and he’ll probably get a peerage before long,” said his father. “But, after all, he is not one of your modern, get-rich-quick men. He’s a real, solid, God-fearing man, who though so very wealthy does a large amount of good in a quiet, unostentatious way. Only three days ago he gave me a cheque for two hundred pounds and asked me to distribute it to the poor people at Christmas, but on no condition is his name to be mentioned to a soul. So keep the information to yourself, Roddy.”
“Of course I will,” his son replied, puffing at his pipe.
“Mr Sandys asked about you,” said the rector. “I am to take you to the Towers to dine one night very soon.”
“I shall be delighted. Old Lord Farncombe asked me when I was last at home. Don’t you remember?”
“Of course,” said his father. “But how have you been feeling to-day? All right, I hope?”
“I feel quite right again now,” replied the young man. Then, after a brief pause, he removed his pipe and looked straight across at his father as in a rather changed voice, he said: “Do you recollect, dad, the other day you spoke of a certain woman, and warned me against her?”
“Yes,” said the old rector very seriously. “You recollect her name, I hope—Freda Crisp. Never forget that name, Roddy, never!”