Something's been
taken out of my portmanteau. It was a little present from my mother and
myself for your silver wedding. I should have given it to you last night
after dinner, only it happened to be a cream jug, and you seemed annoyed
at having so many duplicates, so I felt rather awkward about giving you
another. I thought I'd get it changed for something else, and now it's
gone."
"Did you say it was from your _mother_ and yourself?" asked Mr. and Mrs.
Peter almost in unison. The Snatcher had been an orphan these many
years.
"Yes, my mother's at Cairo just now, and she wrote to me at Dresden to
try and get you something quaint and pretty in the old silver line, and I
pitched on this cream jug."
Both the Pigeoncotes had turned deadly pale. The mention of Dresden had
thrown a sudden light on the situation. It was Wilfrid the Attache, a
very superior young man, who rarely came within their social horizon,
whom they had been entertaining unawares in the supposed character of
Wilfrid the Snatcher. Lady Ernestine Pigeoncote, his mother, moved in
circles which were entirely beyond their compass or ambitions, and the
son would probably one day be an Ambassador.
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