He was within two miles of the castle when he saw the man he had come to see mounted on a chestnut polo pony cantering along and driving a white polo ball over the stretch of firm turf.
Grenvil pulled up as he saw the American.
"Trying to get my eye back," he said smiling. "Corking game, polo, ever play it, Mr. Trent?"
"I've had to work too hard," Trent snapped.
"Much better for you I've no doubt," said Grenvil idly, "If one may ask it, what sort of work did you do?"
"You've no idea I suppose?"
Grenvil looked at him mildly.
"How can I have any idea?" he asked.
Anthony Trent from his bigger horse looked down at the man on the polo pony sourly. There was that bland look of irritating innocence that would have convinced any judge and jury. But it did not sway him.
In just such a pleasantly modulated voice, and with no doubt just such an ingratiating smile Private Smith had feared Anthony Trent was dying in very bad company.