“Come, Mr. Blair,” said Mrs. Kent; “you sit there, next to Mr. Kent, where you can talk about archaeology. Mr. Carter tells me he knows nothing about such subjects, so he will have to amuse Kathleen and me.” “What errand brings you to Wolverhampton, Mr. Carter?” inquired Blair, thinking to unmask his opponent's weapons as quickly as possible.
Carter was a little staggered by this, but his effrontery was up to the test.
“The Bishop sent me down,” he said, “to look over the surrounding parishes with a view to establishing a chapel in the suburbs.”
“How very interesting!” exclaimed Mr. Kent. “But surely this does not lie in the Oxford diocese?”
“Quite true,” said Carter. “The Bishop had to get special permission from Parliament. An old statute of the fourteenth century, I believe.”
“Indeed! Indeed!” cried Mr. Kent. “How absorbing! My dear Mr. Carter, you must tell me more about that. I take it you are something of a historical student, after all.”
“I'm afraid not, sir,” replied Carter. “My studies in divinity have been too exacting to leave much opportunity—”
“You must not believe Mr. Carter's disclaimers,” said Blair. “I have heard of his papers before the Oxford Historical Society. He has a very sound antiquarian instinct. I think you would find his ideas of great interest.”
“We were speaking of the battle with the Danes at Tettenhall,” observed Mr. Kent, turning to Blair. “I think that if Kathleen could arrange to take you out there you would find the burial mounds of unusual interest. My dear, could you walk out there with Mr. Blair to-morrow morning?”
Kathleen assented, but Blair noticed that she was not eating her soup. He also noticed that the maid, in the background, was seized with occasional spasms, which he was at a loss to interpret.
“Did I hear you say Tettenhall?” ventured Carter. “That is the very place the Bishop mentioned to me. He was particularly anxious that I should go there.”
“You must come with us, by all means,” said Kathleen.
“Bravo,” said Mr. Kent, beaming genially upon the young people. “I wish I could go with you. You know they say Wulfruna, the widow of the Earl of Northampton, who founded Wolverhampton, had a kind of summer place once near Tettenhall, and I claim to have located—By the way, my dear, what do you suppose has happened to this soup?”
“I think that Eliza Thick has a heavy hand with the condiments,” said Mrs. Kent. “You may take it away now, Mary.”
“As I recall, Wulfruna founded the town about 996,” observed Blair. “I presume it takes its name from her?”
“Exactly—Wulfruna-hampton. Really, Mr. Blair, your historical knowledge does you honour. I had no idea that Americans were such keen students of the past.”
Blair began to think that he had overplayed his hand, for he noticed that Falstaff was getting in some private conversation with Kathleen. He attempted to catch her eye to ask a question, but Mr. Kent was now well launched on his hobby.
“Wulfruna was descended from Ethelhild, who was a granddaughter of Alfred the Great. You recall that the Etheling Ethelwold, the son of Alfred's brother Ethelred, took sides with the Danes. To stem the invasion, Edward and his sister Ethelfled—”
“Ethel fled, that's just the trouble,” interposed Mrs. Kent. “Kathleen, my dear, do run downstairs and see what's wrong in the kitchen. I'm afraid Eliza is in difficulties again. Mr. Blair, you and Mr. Carter must excuse this irregularity. Our substitute cook is a very strange person.”
Kathleen left the room, and it seemed to Blair as though the sparkle had fled from the glasses, the gleam of candlelight from the silver. Across the cloth he had watched her—girlish, debonair, and with a secret laughter lurking in her eyes. And yet he had not had a chance to exchange half a dozen sentences with her.
The maid reentered, whispered something to Mrs. Kent, and began to place the dishes for the next course.
“Kathleen begs to be excused,” said Mrs. Kent. “She thinks she had better stay in the kitchen to help Eliza.”
“Oh, I say,” cried the curate. “That's too bad. Do you think I could help, Mrs. Kent? I'm a very good cook. The Bishop himself has praised my—er—my—”
“Your what?” asked Blair.
“My ham and eggs,” retorted the cleric.
“Perhaps you will let me wash the dishes,” suggested Blair. “I should be only too happy to assist. I feel very embarrassed at having intruded upon you at so inconvenient a time.”
“I should not dream of such a thing,” said Mrs. Kent. “I believe that Eliza is perfectly capable, but as Joe said, she is eccentric.”
“I am quite accustomed to washing dishes,” said Carter. “In fact, the Bishop always used to ask me to do it for him.”
“Dear me,” remarked Mr. Kent, “surely the Bishop has plenty of servants to help in such matters?”
Blair applied himself to the food on his plate to which he had helped himself almost unconsciously. He well knew the daring hardihood of his rival, and feared that the other might find some excuse to follow Kathleen to the kitchen. As he raised his fork to his lips, suddenly his hand halted. The dish was stuffed eggs. His mind reverted to the Public Library the evening before. Was it possible that the Goblin—?
He determined that the first thing to be done was to get Carter so firmly engaged with Mr. Kent that the wolf in cleric's clothing could not withdraw. Then perhaps he himself could frame some excuse for seeing what was going on downstairs.
“Mr. Kent,” he said, “you should draw out Mr. Carter concerning his views on amending the liturgy of the Established Church. He has some very advanced ideas on that subject which have attrac............