"I forgot to ask Undershaw," said Tatham.
Lydia supplied the information. The name of the young man was Claude Faversham. He seemed to have no relations whatever who could come and nurse him.
"Claude Faversham!" Tatham turned upon her with astonishment. "I say! I know a Claude Faversham. I was a term with him at Oxford—at least if it's the same man. Tall?—dark?—good-looking?"
Lydia thought the adjectives fitted.
"He had the most beautiful ring!" she added. "I noticed it when he was tying up my easel."
"A ring!" cried Tatham, wrinkling up his forehead. "By George, that is odd! I remember Faversham's ring perfectly. An uncle gave it him—an old Professor at Oxford, who used to collect things. My tutor sent me to a lecture once, when I was in for schools. Mackworth—that was the old boy's name—was lecturing, and Faversham came down to help him show his cases. Faversham's own ring was supposed to be something special, and Mackworth talked no end about it. Goodness!—so that's the man. Of course I must go and see him!—ask after him anyway."
But the tone had grown suddenly dubious. Lady Tatham's eyebrows rose slightly.
"Go to Threlfall, Harry?"
"Well, not to call on Melrose, mother! I should have to make sure he was out of the way. But I feel as if I ought to do something about Faversham. The fact is he did me a great kindness my first term at Oxford—he got me into a little club I wanted to belong to."
"Oh, but you could belong to any club you wished!" cried Mrs. Penfold.