‘I can’t tell you, my dear dr Sheppard, the relief to a mother’s heart.’
Mrs Ackroyd sighed – a tribute to her mother’s heart, whilst her eyes remained shrewdly observant of me.
‘I was wondering. you are such an old friend of dear roger’s. We know how much he trusts to your judgment. So difficult for me – in my position as poor Cecil’s widow. But there are so many tiresome things – settlements, you know – all that. I fully believe that roger intends to make settlements upon dear Flora, but, as you know, he is just a leetle peculiar about money. Very usual, I’ve heard, amongst men who are captains of industry. I wondered, you know, if you could just sound him on the subject? flora is so fond of you. We feel you are quite an old friend, although we have only really known you just over two years.’
Mrs Ackroyd’s eloquence was cut short as the drawingroom door opened once more. I was pleased at the interruption. I hate interfering in other people’s affairs, and I had not the least intention of tackling Ackroyd on the subject of flora’s settlements. In another moment I should have been forced to tell Mrs Ackroyd as much.
‘You know Major Blunt, don’t you, doctor?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I said.
A lot of people know hector Blunt – at least by repute. He has shot more wild animals in unlikely places than any man living, I suppose. When you mention him, people say: ‘Blunt – you don’t mean the big game man, do you?’
His friendship with Ackroyd has always puzzled me a little. The two men are so totally dissimilar. Hector Blunt is perhaps five years Ackroyd’s junior. They made friends early in life, and though their ways have diverged, the friendship still holds. About once in two years Blunt spends a fortnight at Fernly, and an immense animal’s head, with an amazing number of horns which fixes you with a glazed stare as soon as you come inside the front door, is a permanent reminder of the friendship.
Blunt had entered the room now with his own peculiar, deliberate, yet soft-footed tread. he is a man of medium height, sturdily and rather stockily built. His face is almost mahogany coloured, and is peculiarly expressionless. He has grey eyes that give the impression of always watching something that is happening very far away. He talks little, and what he does say is said jerkily, as though the words were forced out of him unwillingly.