His heir is dead, yes, and his name and title available to me. It doesn’t seem to matter. Stanley came home at a quarter to six—an earlier train by fifteen minutes than he affected—his sister met him in the hall with a hushed expression. ‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged. “I suppose some one makes a bit on the food,” she said. Set on unravelling her secrets, Gerald pursues every possible clue—much to the indignation of Mademoiselle.
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