“I dunno as anything very startling has happened lately in Warnham. The jumble sale came off at the schools last Tuesday fortnight, and there’s a cricket match up at the Lodge next Saturday. Some gentlemen are coming down from London to play.”
“Anything else?”
Denman removed his hat and scratched his head.
“Oh, yes,” he said suddenly. “You knows Mr Macandrew what’s steward for Mr Thornbury? Well, last Monday week an old gentleman called at his house up street and asked to see him. His wife asked him into the parlour, and Mr Macandrew went in. ‘Are you Mr Macandrew?’ says the old gent. ‘I am,’ says Mr Macandrew. ‘Well, I shouldn’t ’ave known you,’ says the old man. And it turned out afterwards that this old man was actually Mr Macandrew’s father, who’s lived ever so many years in America, and hasn’t seen Mr Macandrew since he wor a boy. I did laugh when I heard it.”
“Extraordinary. Have you had any visitors down from London?” I inquired, for sometimes people took the houses of the better-class villagers, furnished for the season.
“We had a lively young gent staying here in the inn for four days last week. He was a friend of somebody up at the Hall, I think, for he was there a good deal. He came from London. I wonder whether you’d know him.”
“What was his name?”
“Funny name,” Denman said, grinning. “Ogle, Mr Ogle.”
“Ogle!” I gasped. “What was his Christian name?”
“Dudley, I fancy it was.”