At half-past twelve on the following morning Mr. Peter Johnson, dressed in a blue serge suit and patent shoes—a costume which, after much deliberation, he deemed suitable for the enterprise on which he was bent—mounted his two-seated car, drove through the village, exchanging polite greetings with one or two of his recent acquaintances, and, after a moment’s wait at the lodge gates, proceeded at a subdued pace along the winding road which crossed the park and up through the great avenue to the front entrance of the Hall. He left his automobile in a secluded place and found the door open as he mounted the steps. Rawson, unrecognising, stony of face and feature, took his name. A footman relieved him of his hat and gloves. Another subordinate, lurking in the background, threw open the door of the library, into which the visitor was ushered.
“Mr. Johnson,” the man announced.
Henry Ballaston came forward and greeted his guest with punctilious cordiality. Then he turned to his brother who had been lounging on the hearth-rug, reading a newspaper, but who now came forward with outstretched hand.
“This is my brother, Sir Bertram Ballaston—Mr. Johnson, our new tenant at the Great House.”
The two men shook hands; Mr. Johnson a little formally; his host with an indifferent but pleasant courtesy. Sir Bertram had grown somewhat thinner, perhaps, during the last twelve months of ever increasing financial anxiety. His eyes seemed a trifle sunken and the weariness of his mouth was a little more pronounced. His smile, however, as he unbent, was as ingratiating as ever and his voice as insinuating.
“I am very glad to have this opportunity of meeting you, Mr. Johnson,” he said. “You will excuse my having commissioned my brother to represent the family. I happened to be engaged for some days and we were anxious not to delay making your acquaintance.”
“Your brother was very welcome,” was the prompt assurance. “Very kind and neighbourly of you to look me up at all. I am a complete stranger here and, I may add, to England.”
“Indeed,” Sir Bertram murmured civilly. “Might one enquire then, whilst congratulating ourselves upon your choice, what made you select this particular part of the world for your abode?”
“Every one seems to ask me that question,” Mr. Johnson observed. “I imagine there was a certain amount of chance about it. I wished to settle down in England for a time and from all I had heard I thought Norfolk the most suitable locality. I went to an agent in Norwich, found this house at what I considered a very low rental and established myself.”
“And why not indeed?” Sir Bertram demanded approvingly. “For any one who wishes to live a really retired life amongst rural surroundings a better choice could scarcely be made.—I am afraid, Mr. Johnson, that we cannot offer you anything in the way of a modern apéritif. If a glass of Amontillado sherry pleases you I think that you will find this drinkable. My father was reputed to be a judge.”