A lot of rumours had begun concerning Reacher Gilt, just as soon as people had noticed him and started asking, “Who is Reacher Gilt? What kind of a name is Reacher, anyway?' He threw big parties, that was certain. Buying them was slightly disconcerting, but in its dark, original stylishness it was so very Reacher Gilt. Everyone lied about their ancestors, and that was fair enough.
That was slightly worrying, even for Horsefry. Rumour was that Gilt had bought them outright, and not only the pictures it was said that he'd bought all the rights in the long dead as well, deed-polled their names, and thus equipped himself with a proud pedigree overnight. The eyes belonged to the portraits in the big dusty frames that filled the walls, edge to edge. ' And suddenly Horsefry was alone in a big room full of shadows and candlelight and staring eyes, with the door closing behind him. 'May I take your highly notitheable long hooded cloak, thur? And be tho kind ath to follow me into the withdrawing room. 'Exactly tho, thur,' said Igor impassively. 'A little get-together, thur,' said Igor, sniffing. 'Are any of the others here? Have they- What's a thwawreath?' 'The marthter ith having one of hith little thoireeth, thur,' said Igor. 'Shut the door, for gods' sakes!' moaned Horsefry. He peered out into the early evening darkness.
'Shut it, man, shut it! I may have been followed- Good grief, you're an Igor, aren't you? Gilt can afford an Igor?' 'Good evening, thur-' Horsefry pushed past the stumpy figure and into the dark hallway, waving frantically to the servant to close the door. At least in the poorer districts people would have come out to watch, or join in. No one in this select street would have come to the window even if a murder was going on.
The noise echoed through the empty street, but no one came to their window. It was hard to knock at a door whilst trying desperately not to make a sound, and in the end Crispin Horsefry gave up on the second aim and just swung on the doorknocker. 'Got a few errands for you to run, lad.' And if he ain't postmaster material, Groat added in the privacy of his creaking brain, I'll die a junior postman. An' then I can tell him everything! So it'll be all right! An' if he don't walk to the end, then he ain't postmaster material anyway! Stanley? Stanley!' Stanley awoke from a dream of pins.
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