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It had been discussed before her mother and herself, and even the twins and Miss Bird, though not before the servants, during the last few days. Lord and Lady Alistair MacLeod, she a newly wed American, had motored through Kencote, lunched at the inn and fallen in love with the dower-house.
"Certainly not," said Aunt Laura. "You should never forget, Cicely, what a good father you have. I am sure when I heard the other day from Mr. Hayles that your dear father had instructed him to refuse Lady Alistair MacLeod's most advantageous offer to rent this house, solely on account of your Aunt Ellen and myself, I felt that we were, indeed, in good hands, and fortunate to be so."
You understand?" "Oh, please don't please," he stammered, feeling he had been indiscreet, but flattered all the same by the promise of her confidence. "His name is Alistair Ramsey. I have known him a long time." "Is he an intimate friend of yours, monsieur?" "Well, no, I can't say intimate, but I used to know him very well." "What is his position in London?" Bobby thought a moment.
There used to be all sorts of attempts on the part of low blighters to sneak him away from me. Young Reggie Foljambe to my certain knowledge offered him double what I was giving him, and Alistair Bingham-Reeves, who's got a valet who had been known to press his trousers sideways, used to look at him, when he came to see me, with a kind of glittering hungry eye which disturbed me deucedly.
"That reminds me," he said. "I inquired about your commission at the War Office. You know, I suppose, that Alistair Ramsey is private secretary to Sir Archibald Fellowes. Old Fellowes decides upon all commissions, and your charming friend, Mr. Ramsey, informed him you were not a fit person to wear his Majesty's uniform." Bobby stared. "The dirty dog!" he exclaimed. "Well, I'm damned!
For a moment Bobby hesitated. If there were one man in all his acquaintance whom he would have preferred that Madame de Corantin should not know, it was Alistair Ramsey. Bobby had known him for a good many years. The acquaintance dated back to a period when Ramsey was a comparatively young man of fashionable manner and appearance on half-commission with a firm of stockbrokers.
"What do you mean?" asked Clancey. "What I mean is that I introduced Alistair Ramsey to her in Paris, with the result that I have never seen her since until yesterday." Clancey did not immediately reply, but a curious expression overspread his face. "Alistair Ramsey," he murmured, and then again, "Alistair Ramsey, dear me!" Bobby looked at him wonderingly. Clancey laughed lightly.
Alistair Ramsey was standing in the doorway, waiting for the head waiter to show him to his table. His eyes were fixed upon Madame de Corantin's face. The look of astonishment Bobby had noticed before had given place to one of mingled surprise and curiosity. He had exchanged his uniform for evening dress, and wore a flower in his buttonhole.
Norman Lockyard, the wife of the Cabinet Minister. I seem to keep on bringing in ladies, but somehow when one talks about Alistair Ramsey one can't help it. Through Mrs. Lockyard, he got introduced to Sir Archibald Fellowes. It wasn't very difficult, you know; Ramsey gives little parties in his flat in Mount Street all sorts of people go.
Where could she have gone, and why couldn't she tell him, and oh, how could he have been such a fool as to have gone on sleeping like a stupid log at the moment that she was going away? He would never be able to forgive himself for that. Was there any connection between her departure and her meeting with Alistair Ramsey? Bobby tried to concentrate his mind on the problem, but it baffled him.
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