The tall young man reared his flannel-clad limbs from the depths of his comfortable chair, and went out, a half-stifled expression of annoyance escaping him. He had no sooner disappeared than one of the two remaining members, who had been leaning against the mantelpiece, with his back to the fireless grate, strolled over to one of the French windows overlooking the esplanade. He was an elderly man, very well groomed as to his person and clothes, and with a pair of alert, all-devouring eyes set in an ascetic face. Mr. Vernon Mallory had put in forty years at the Foreign Office and was now, in honourable retirement, reaping the reward of much useful work. He was known as a shrewd observer and a keen judge of character. It was now his pleasure, as it had once been his business, to know all things about all men.
"Chermside did not appear to be best pleased at the interruption," Mr. Mallory remarked. "Ah, there he goes, with the disturber of his peace, towards the marsh. I can understand his annoyance, for the man who called him out is a most unsavoury-looking person."
The other member, a fresh, clean-shaven youngster of not more than three-and-twenty, got up and joined his senior at the window.
"Who and what is this Mr. Leslie Chermside, anyhow?" he asked, after a prolonged stare at the two receding figures. "I rather like the chap, somehow, and yet there is a sort of shy constraint about him that is not altogether satisfactory."
"He arrived a month ago, bringing an introduction to our worthy honorary secretary from Nugent, on the strength of which he became a temporary member," Mr. Mallory replied, with a slight shrug of his shoulders.
Lieutenant Reginald Beauchamp, at present commanding a "destroyer" stationed at Plymouth, but spending his leave with his mother, was prone to merriment at all times and seasons. There was a dryness in the elder gentleman's tone which caused him to chuckle.
"You were never keen on Travers Nugent, I know," he said. "But you have not answered my question about Chermside with your customary enlightenment, Mr. Mallory. I asked who and what he is. My mother tells me that he has been making strong running with a pretty girl—Miss Maynard, I think, the name was—whose people have taken the Manor House for the summer. You see, I only turned up last night for a short respite from my little tin ship, so I'm all agog for the local gossip."
At that moment the subject of their discussion and the man who had called for him disappeared from view, having rounded the corner of the slight eminence. The pair had struck into the footpath which would lead them along the marsh under the nearer bank of the vanished estuary. Mr. Mallory turned away from the window with an enigmatic smile for his young naval friend.
"I cannot tell you what Mr. Chermside is," he said when he had produced his cigar-case and selected a weed. "But the official Army lists—not the ones that are quite up to date, mind you—record what he was. There seems to be an unexplained gulf between the termination of his military career and his presence in our midst. A hiatus, so to speak, of nearly two years since he was an officer in the 24th Lancers undoubtedly exists. His own account of himself is that he has recently come into money, and that he is playing about here while awaiting the arrival of a steam yacht on which he means to take an extended cruise. Beyond that, both my opinion and my scanty information coincide with yours. He strikes one as unobjectionable but reserved, and he has certainly been dangling after the daughter of old Maynard, who has rented the Manor House furnished for the season."
"What is Maynard?" demanded Reggie Beauchamp with persistent interest.