The visitor shook his head. His smile was good-natured, but, to a keen observer, a little sphinxlike. His eyes never wavered.
“You are mistaking me for some one else,” he said. “My name is certainly Johnson, but it is not an uncommon one and I am quite sure that this is our first meeting.”
“It is my memory which is at fault, then,” Gregory observed, relapsing with an effort into his usual self. “Glad to welcome you here, Mr. Johnson. Rawson, am I to be allowed a glass of the sherry? Good! I need it.”
Luncheon was served with a certain measured but not ungraceful ceremony. The food was excellent and, although the fact was not alluded to, the guest of the meal, who possessed an instinctive appreciation of such things, realised that he was drinking cabinet hock of an almost extinct vintage. Conversation never flagged, but it was conducted upon a level and in a spirit which were a little difficult to the visitor. There was no attempt at humour or story telling. Even personal reminiscences and questionings of all sorts were eschewed. There were grave remarks about politics, county affairs, the prospects of the forthcoming shooting season. Mr. Johnson ventured to express once more his hope of renting a little shooting himself.
“I am afraid,” his host regretted, “that such a thing is out of the question for the moment. The Ballaston shooting extends for some distance in every direction, and I do not allow my tenant farmers to concede their sporting rights. We shall, of course, be happy for you to shoot with us, whenever you feel inclined, but from the point of view of sport I fear that you have chosen a somewhat unfavourable neighbourhood. I speak of the immediate present. In the near future there may be changes.”
“The matter does not greatly concern me,” was the equable reply. “I have shot birds and beasts in different places, but I do not pretend to be a sportsman. I shall find a great deal of occupation in my garden, in country walks and motoring.”
“I was telling my son this morning,” Sir Bertram observed, “that I consider our agent, Mr. Borroughes, was very much to blame for not having told you the inner history of the Great House before you took it.”
“It would, perhaps, have been better,” Mr. Johnson admitted. “At the same time it would have made no difference to my plans. Were you, by-the-by, personally acquainted with my unfortunate predecessor?”
“We had exchanged some few civilities,” Sir Bertram replied. “Our acquaintance, however, was nothing but that slight affair which exists between neighbours. But for the unfortunate tragedy which occurred we should probably have become more intimate. Mr. Endacott happened to be a brother of an old friend of mine—the Comtesse de Fourgenet, who resides at the Little House. It was for that reason, I imagine, that he elected to settle down in this neighbourhood.”
“There was a niece,” Mr. Johnson ventured.