He was burning to teach Charles
and myself to swim, when we told him we could neither of us take a
single stroke; he said it was an accomplishment incumbent upon every
true Englishman. But Charles hates the water; while, as for myself,
I detest every known form of muscular exercise.
However, we consented that he should row us on the Firth, and made
an appointment one day with himself and his wife for four the next
evening.
That night Charles came to me with a very grave face in my own
bedroom. "Sey," he said, under his breath, "have you observed?
Have you watched? Have you any suspicions?"
I trembled violently. I felt all was up. "Suspicions of whom?"
I asked. "Not surely of Simpson?" (he was Sir Charles's valet).
My respected brother-in-law looked at me contemptuously.
"Sey," he said, "are you trying to take me in? No, _not_ of Simpson:
of these two young folks. My own belief is--they're Colonel Clay
and Madame Picardet."
"Impossible!" I cried.
He nodded. "I'm sure of it."
"How do you know?"
"Instinctively."
I seized his arm. "Charles," I said, imploring him, "do nothing
rash. Remember how you exposed yourself to the ridicule of fools
over Dr. Polperro!"
"I've thought of that," he answered, "and I mean to ca' caller."
(When in Scotland as laird of Seldon, Charles loves both to dress
and to speak the part thoroughly.
Pages:
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120