“Oh!” said Sir Richard, favouring him with a long, penetrating look.
“He’s Beverley Brandon—Lord Saar’s younger son!”
“I know very well who he is. You, I apprehend, are Mr Piers Luttrell
“Yes. Yes, I am. I knew him up at Oxford. Not very well, because I—well, to tell you the truth, I never liked him much. But a week ago he arrived at my home. He had been visiting friends, I think. I don’t know. But of course I—that is, my mother and I—asked him to stay, and he did. He has not been quite well—seemed to be in need of rest, and—and country air. Indeed, I can’t conceive how he comes to be here now, for he retired to his room with one of his sick headaches. At least, that was what he told my mother.”
“Then you did not come here in search of him?”
“No, no! I came—The fact is, I just came out to enjoy a stroll in the moonlight,” replied Piers, in a hurry.
“I see.” There was a dry note in Sir Richard’s voice.
“Why are you here?” demanded Piers.
“For the same reason,” Sir Richard answered.
“But you know Brandon!”