“He’s a-going off his nut,” declared a voice from the nap table; “he did ought to be put away—he did.”
“Ay,” agreed the organist, addressing Wynyard, “his good lady won’t hear of it; but it’s my opinion that he is no longer safe to himself or others—it’s the loose and at-home lunatics that commit these awful crimes ye read of in the papers, and makes your blood run cold.”
Wynyard made no reply. He had more than once heard Pither himself spoken of as a madman and a crazy fellow; but he was merely eccentric. As for Captain Ramsay, he was lost in conjecture as to how that unfortunate and afflicted gentleman had got hold of his real name?
This mystery was solved no later than the next evening. In the lovely, soft June twilight he was walking past the Claringbold’s empty farm, and here came upon the captain, who was leaning over the gate, and signalled imperatively to him with his stick.
“Look here!” he called out, and Wynyard stood still. “You’ve been a puzzle to me for nearly six weeks—and at last I’ve got you.”
“Got me!”
“Of course you are Owen Wynyard; you and I knew one another long ago. Why, man! we were schoolfellows, almost like brothers, and afterwards, when our two regiments lay in Lucknow—why, God bless me! it’s over thirty years ago!”
Captain Ramsay had got hold of his right name, but otherwise he was a raving lunatic.
“You are Owen Wynyard, aren’t you?” he asked impatiently.
“Yes, I am, but I don’t use the Wynyard here; and I must beg you to keep it to yourself.”