"Ah, yes. Gervase scribbles when he has time. He is by way of being an authority on criminology."
"And is, I should say," Gifford added civilly.
"Yes; he is a smart fellow. Has the brains of the family. I'm all for sport and the open-air life."
"And yet," thought Gifford, glancing at the dark, rather intriguing face opposite to him, "you don't look a sportsman. More a viveur than a regular open-air man, more at home in London or Paris than in the stubbles or covert." But he merely nodded acceptance of Henshaw's statement.
"My name is Kelson," the soldier said, supplying an omission due to Henshaw's talk of himself. "I have hunted this country pretty regularly since I left the Service. And my friend is Hugh Gifford."
"Gifford? Did not Wynford Place where we are going to-night belong to the
Giffords?" Henshaw asked, curiosity overcoming tact.
"Yes," Gifford answered, "to an uncle of mine. He sold it lately to
Morriston."
"Ah; a pity. Fine old place," Henshaw observed casually. "Naturally you know it well."
"I have had very good times there," Gifford answered, with a certain reserve as though disinclined to discuss the subject with a stranger. "I have come down now also for old acquaintance' sake," he added casually.
"I see," Henshaw responded. "Not altogether pleasant, though, to see an old family place in the hands of strangers. Personally, when a thing is irrevocably gone, as, I take it, Wynford Place is, I believe in letting it slide out of one's mind, and having no sentiment about it."