Would you mind telling me whether that military
fellow who dropped his sword-stick in the row gave you an address
or not?"
"Yes, sir," said the policeman, after a reflective pause; "yes, he
gave me his address."
"My name is Rupert Grant," said that individual, with some pomp.
"I have assisted the police on more than one occasion. I wonder
whether you would tell me, as a special favour, what address?"
The constable looked at him.
"Yes," he said slowly, "if you like. His address is: The Elms,
Buxton Common, near Purley, Surrey."
"Thank you," said Rupert, and ran home through the gathering night
as fast as his legs could carry him, repeating the address to
himself.
Rupert Grant generally came down late in a rather lordly way to
breakfast; he contrived, I don't know how, to achieve always the
attitude of the indulged younger brother. Next morning, however,
when Basil and I came down we found him ready and restless.
"Well," he said sharply to his brother almost before we sat down to
the meal. "What do you think of your Drummond Keith now?"
"What do I think of him?" inquired Basil slowly. "I don't think
anything of him."
"I'm glad to hear it," said Rupert, buttering his toast with an
energy that was somewhat exultant. "I thought you'd come round to
my view, but I own I was startled at your not seeing it from the
beginning.
Pages:
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121