Then as we walked together in the glittering spring sunshine, this big silent man and I, there came upon me a swift, poignant impulse, the keener perhaps because of the loneliness of my days, to implore him to unravel all the things which lay between us. I wanted the story of that night, of my concern in it, stripped bare. Already my lips were opened, when round the corner of the rough lane by which Braster Grange was approached on this side came a doctor's gig. Ray shaded his eyes and gazed at its occupant.
"Is this Bouriggs, Ducaine?" he asked, "the man who shot with us?"
"It is Dr. Bouriggs," I answered.
Ray stopped the gig and exchanged greetings with the big sandy-haired man, who held a rein in each hand as though he were driving a market wagon. They chatted for a moment or two, idly enough, as it seemed to me.
"Any one ill at the Grange, doctor?" Ray asked at length.
The doctor looked at him curiously.
"I have just come from there," he answered. "There is nothing very seriously wrong."
"Can you tell me if Lord Blenavon is there?" Ray asked.
The doctor hesitated.
"It was hinted to me, Colonel Ray," he said, "that my visit to the Grange was not to be spoken of. You will understand, of course, that the etiquette of our profession—"