I took up my quarters at the historic Red Lion, and over a whisky-and-soda made inquiries of the plethoric landlord as to the whereabouts of Whitton. It lay beyond the town, half-way towards Twickenham, he told me.
“There’s a Whitton Park, isn’t there?” I inquired.
“Yes; Colonel Chetwode’s place. That’s just before you get to Whitton Church.”
“It’s a large house, I suppose?”
“Oh, yes; he’s the squire there, and magistrate, and all that.”
“I’ve heard his name,” I said, “but I’ve never seen him. What sort of a man is he?”
“Oh, a bit stand-offish, tall, thin, and grey-haired. We hotel-keepers don’t like ’im, because he’s always down on us on the licensing-days over at Brentford,” the man replied, chewing his cheap cigar.
“He’s married, isn’t he?”
“Yes; he married ’is second wife about three years ago. She’s a good-looking woman with reddish hair. They say she don’t get on very well with the Colonel’s grown-up son.”
“Oh,” I remarked, at once interested. “How old is the son?”