He first went very red, then white, his hand trembled, and he had to steady himself for a moment.
“Just go out for a minute or two, Annie,” he said to his niece. “I want to speak to this gentleman. Take a seat, sir.” He pulled forward one of the rush-bottomed chairs from beside the rickety old bureau.
“Don’t think, Mr. Knutton, that I’ve come here with any hostile intent,” I said, in order to reassure him. “I’ve come to Rockingham expressly to ask you one or two questions regarding your family. I am making some investigations about the Knuttons, and perhaps you can assist me. Have you any brothers or sisters living?”
“No, sir, I haven’t. My brother Dick died this ten years ago.”
Dick! Then that man’s name was Richard Knutton!
“Did he leave any sons?” I inquired.
“Only one—young Dick. He enlisted, and was killed in Afghanistan.”
“He enlisted after his father’s death?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered, more at his ease.
“Your family is a very old one in this neighbourhood, isn’t it?”