Читать книгу Antony Gray,—Gardener - LM - Страница 6

“Yours obediently,

“Henry Parsons.”

And the paper was headed, Parsons & Glieve, Solicitors.

Nicholas Danver. Where had he heard that name before? What faint cord of memory did it strike? He sought in vain for the answer. Yet somehow, at sometime, surely he had heard it! Again and again he seemed on the verge of discovering the clue, and again and again it escaped him, slipping elusive from him. It was tantalizing, annoying. With a slight mental effort he abandoned the search. Unpursued, the clue might presently return to him.

Riffle reappeared on the stoep bearing a tea-tray. Josephus sat erect. For full ten minutes his brown eyes gazed ardently towards the table. What had happened? What untoward event had occurred? Antony was oblivious of his very existence. Munching bread and butter, drinking hot tea himself, he appeared entirely to have forgotten that a thirsty and bewilderedly disappointed puppy was gazing at him from the harbourage of his old coat. At length the neglect became a thing not to be borne. Waving a deprecating paw, Josephus gave vent to a pitiful whine.

Antony turned. Then realization dawned on him. He grasped the milk jug.

“You poor little beggar,” he laughed. “It’s not often you get neglected. But it’s not often that bombshells in the shape of ordinary, simple, harmless-looking letters fall from the skies, scattering extraordinary contents and my wits along with them. Here you are, you morsel of injured patience.”

Josephus lapped, greedily, thirstily, till the empty saucer circled on the stoep under the onslaughts of his small pink tongue.

Antony had again sunk into a reverie, a reverie which lasted for another fifteen minutes or so. At last he roused himself.

“Josephus, my son,” he announced solemnly, “there are jobs to be done, and in spite of bombshells we’d better do them, and leave Arabian Night wonders for further contemplation this evening.”