Then he said with an apologetic smile:
"We are old acquaintances, Miss Hewett, but I'm afraid you've forgotten me."
Clara regarded him in astonishment. His age seemed to be something short of thirty; he had a long, grave, intelligent face, smiled enigmatically, spoke in a rather slow voice. His silk hat, sober necktie drawn through a gold ring, and dark morning-coat, made it probable that he was "in the City."
"We used to know each other very well about five years ago," he pursued, pocketing his change carelessly. "Don't you remember a Mr. Scawthorne, who used to be a lodger with some friends of yours called Rudd?"
On the instant memory revived in Clara. In her school-days she often spent a Sunday afternoon with Grace Rudd, and this Mr. Scawthorne was generally at the tea-table. Mr. and Mrs. Rudd made much of him, said that he held a most important post in a lawyer's office, doubtless had private designs concerning him and their daughter. Thus aided, she even recognised his features.
