"A gentleman on a walking tour, mother, who has lost his way."
"You're not far from Umberleigh," said the elder woman. "Where are you making for?"
"Nowhere in particular, as I've been explaining to your daughter, madam," smiled the man. "Finally, however, I shall take the train and arrive in London and slaughter the man who wrote the article which appeared in the paper."
"Sounds like the house that Jack built," laughed the girl. "Anyway, you'd better stop to lunch."
The man glanced at her mother, who seconded the invitation with a gracious smile.
"My name is Hewson," he remarked. "Charles Hewson." He glanced at them as he spoke, and gave a little sigh of relief: evidently the name meant nothing to them. "And I don't always look like a zebra."
He followed them slowly up the shady path, and the girl laughed again.
"Doesn't matter what you look like," she cried, "as long as you know something about postage-stamps."
"Do you collect?" he asked.
"No—but daddy does. He's partially insane on the subject."