"I happened to meet a Gerald Whittinghame in town about five years ago," said Dacres.
"Oh—how?"
"During the College summer vacation. I met him at General Shaldon's house, when I was staying with my friend Dick Shaldon. Whittinghame was then a man of about twenty-two. He had just come home from somewhere in South America. He was a rattling good left-hand bowler, I remember."
"That's my brother," said Vaughan Whittinghame quietly. "By the by, are you a 'Varsity man?"
Dacres shook his head. He did not at present feel inclined to lay his cards upon the table.
"To get straight to the point," continued Whittinghame, looking his guest full in the face, "how came you in my grounds this evening?"
"That's easily explained," replied Dacres. "I was on my way to Cranbury House—I've never been there yet—and I lost my way. Nearly got stuck in a bog more than once. Eventually I saw a light, and crawling through a fence"—here he looked regretfully at his torn clothing "—I found myself confronted by some of your men."
"It is as well you thought better of resisting," said Whittinghame quietly. "They are tough customers and they know their orders. I may as well tell you, Mr. Dacres, that I am compelled to detain you here for a few days."
"Very well," replied Dacres with perfect sangfroid.
It was Whittinghame's turn to look astonished.