“No, he has not been here for some time. But he is the son—adopted son,

rather—of Mr. Ackroyd of Fernly Park.”

 

My neighbor made a slight gesture of impatience.

 

“Of course, I should have guessed. Mr. Ackroyd spoke of him many times.”

 

“You know Mr. Ackroyd?” I said, slightly surprised.

 

“Mr. Ackroyd knew me in London—when I was at work there. I have asked him to say

nothing of my profession down here.”

 

“I see,” I said, rather amused by this patent snobbery, as I thought it.

 

But the little man went on with an almost grandiloquent smirk.

 

“One prefers to remain incognito. I am not anxious for notoriety. I have not

even troubled to correct the local version of my name.”

 

“Indeed,” I said, not knowing quite what to say.

 

“Captain Ralph Paton,” mused Mr. Porrott. “And so he is engaged to Mr.

 

Ackroyd’s niece, the charming Miss Flora.”