I turned to leave the room, but found myself face to face with a young man in the act of entering it.
"Blenavon!" the Duke exclaimed.
"How are you, sir?" the newcomer answered. "Sorry I didn't arrive in time to see you last night. We motored from King's Lynn, and the whole of this respectable household was in bed."
I knew at once who he was. The Duke looked towards me.
"Ducaine," he said, "this is my son, Lord Blenavon."
Lord Blenavon's smile was evidently meant to be friendly, but his expression belied it. He was slightly taller than his father, and his cast of features was altogether different. His cheeks were pale, almost sunken, his eyes were too close together, and they had the dimness of the roue or the habitual dyspeptic. His lips were too full, his chin too receding, and he was almost bald.
"How are you, Mr. Ducaine?" he said. "Awful hour to be out of bed, isn't it? and all for the slaying of a few fat and innocent birds. Let me see, wasn't I at Magdalen with you?"
"I came up in your last year," I reminded him.
"Ah, yes, I remember," he drawled. "Terrible close worker you were, too. Are you breakfasting down stairs, sir?"
"I think that I had better," the Duke said. "I suppose you brought some men with you?"