'Thanks,' said the Bishop. 'Dash the man, he might at least have
wired.'

He registered a silent wish concerning the uncle who had brought him a
long three miles out of his way with nothing to show at the end of it,
and was just turning to leave the station, when the top-hatted small
boy, who had been hovering round the group during the conversation,
addressed winged words to him. These were the winged words--

'I say, are you looking for somebody?' The Bishop stared at him as a
naturalist stares at a novel species of insect.

'Yes,' he said. 'Why?'

'Is your name Gethryn?'

This affair, thought the Bishop, was beginning to assume an uncanny
aspect.

'How the dickens did you know that?' he said.

'Oh, then you are Gethryn? That's all right. I was told you were going
to be here to meet this train. Glad to make your acquaintance. My
name's Farnie. I'm your uncle, you know.'

'My what?' gurgled the Bishop.

'Your uncle. U-n, un; c-l-e--kul. Uncle. Fact, I assure you.'