“It’s about Guy, we’re awfully anxious, you know,” he said in his loud, resonant tones. “I wonder if you can help us at all. My daughter and Isobel tell me you are a great friend of Moreno.”
Beneath his somewhat pachydermatous exterior; Farquhar had a certain vein of sensitiveness. He was now sure of what he had suspected. He had been asked to dine for the purposes of being pumped for the information he could or could not give them. Lord Saxham, in his blunt, vulgar fashion, had so unsuccessfully masked his hospitality. Then he caught Lady Mary’s pleading, almost shamefaced glance.
“I can quite guess what is in your mind, Mr Farquhar, but I beg you to forgive our anxiety. We are very pleased to see you here for your own sake. If you can help us with Guy, we shall be doubly pleased.”
She leaned across, and said, in a whisper that did not reach Lord Saxham’s ears, dulled with age:
“My father will, unfortunately, always take the lead, but he is not always happy in his way of expressing himself.”
The rather stiff-backed young lawyer forgot his momentary resentment under the kind words of this charming young woman who could so graciously pour oil on the troubled waters.
“Please, Lady Mary, tell me in what way I can serve you.” There was no stiffness in his tones.
Lord Saxham had subsided now. He gathered, in a dim sort of way, that he had put his foot in it, for about the thousandth time in his long career. He was going to leave it all to his capable daughter.
Mary drew her chair closer to the guest. Lord Saxham, for the moment, was out of the picture. Besides, he was nodding over his second glass of port. It was better so, he was now incapable of mischief.
Mary put her cards frankly on the table.