“Indeed!”
“I was born at Canterbury. Ever seen the cathedral?”
“Canterbury Cathedral!” muttered Holdsworth, struggling to grasp an illusive, half-formed fancy that flitted across his mind.
“Take the country about Hanwitch, now ...”
“Hanwitch!” echoed Holdsworth. The name pierced him as a sword might. He pressed his fingers tightly over his eyes, his face turned white, and his whole body trembled.
His companion stared at him.
“Do you know Hanwitch?” he asked, wondering if this singular-looking person with the haggard face, Australian clothes, and thick beard was in possession of his right mind.
“The name struck me,” answered Holdsworth, removing his hands and frowning in his effort to master the meaning of the extraordinary emotion excited by the name of that town.
“There’s not a spot of land anywhere within thirty miles of Canterbury all round,” continued the man, looking at Holdsworth watchfully, “that I don’t know. I name Hanwitch because there’s a bit of river scenery near it which is prettier than anything I’ve seen in any other part of England. If you’ve got the leisure, and would like to see what this country can show in the way of good views, take a run down to Hanwitch.”
He pulled out a pocket-book, and extracting a card, handed it to Holdsworth, observing in a tone that at least showed he had regained his confidence in his neighbour: