Peter Johnson stumbled to his feet and Henry Ballaston removed his hat in courtly and formal salute. He was strangely dressed for the country, in a black cut away coat and grey checked trousers. The shape of his collar belonged to a past generation. He wore a black satin tie folded over and secured by a pearl pin, a bowler hat carried now in his hand, and grey suède gloves.
“You are, I presume,” he said, withdrawing the glove from his right hand before extending it, “our new neighbour, Mr. Johnson. I have called on behalf of my brother and myself for the purpose of welcoming you to this neighbourhood.”
Mr. Johnson took the outstretched hand and released it almost at once. Here was a man, he decided, after his own heart—a man difficult to read, of immense reticences.
“It is very kind of you to come,” he said. “I am sure I scarcely expected it. I have been given to understand that neither you nor your brother pay many visits.”
“I am afraid,” Henry Ballaston assented, accepting the chair which Morton had brought out, “that we are both a little neglectful of our duties in that respect. You are so near a neighbour, however, that I permitted myself the pleasure of devoting a spare half-hour to making your acquaintance.”
“Very kind of you, I am sure,” Mr. Johnson repeated. “Fine old property, yours.”
“Ballaston Hall has many points of interest,” the other admitted. “I trust that we may soon have the pleasure of seeing you there. My brother,” he added, with a little sigh, “finds many calls upon his time. He is Chairman of the Quarter Sessions, Lord Lieutenant of the County, and he takes some interest in the political activities of our Member. He is, furthermore, Master of the Hounds here, as I dare say you know. He desired me to say, however, that he should look forward to the pleasure of making your acquaintance.—You yourself are agreeably housed here.”
“I like the place,” its tenant admitted. “In many respects it suits me admirably.”
“I find it interesting and also laudable,” Henry Ballaston observed—“as no doubt do many other of your neighbours—that you were not deterred from taking up your residence here on account of the tragedy—the unfortunate accident—which befell the late owner of the house.”
Mr. Johnson looked for a moment steadily across the iron fence close to which they were seated. It was a typically restful summer afternoon. From the distance came the soothing sound of a grass-cutting machine. There was a murmur of bees amongst the roses, the faintest rustle of west wind amongst the shrubs. All the time those cold blue eyes watched him. There was no sign of anxiety or even of interest in Henry Ballaston’s expressionless face. His attitude remained stiff and formal. His eyes never wavered in their steadfast gaze.