"'Cos I know they like this best," was the answer, and the boy looked up at Casson and grinned. Casson was now so taken up with the boy's appearance that he forgot all about the bait. He had never seen such an unpleasant, queer, malshapen face before. The cranium was disproportionately large; the forehead and sides of the head immediately above and behind the ears were enormously developed; the chin was small and retreating; the ears, which stood very pronouncedly out from the head, were very big and pointed; the mouth huge; the eyes big, dark, and very heavily lidded; the skin yellow and unhealthy. The face was unprepossessing enough in repose, but when the lips opened and it smiled, the likeness to some ghoulish, froggish, and wholly monstrous kind of animal was increased a hundredfold, and Casson started back in dismay. "Who are you?" he demanded, "and what right have you to fish here?" "I like that--I do," the boy grunted. "Why, I've every right. I'm Ephraim Owen Lloyd. My mother, her you're staying with, was Mrs. Owen Lloyd before she married again and took the name of Griffiths. No right to fish here! You tell my mother that and see what she says." And, grinning wider than ever, he picked up the baited hook and flung it far into the stream. Not wishing to have any further conversation with him, and feeling thoroughly disgusted and repelled, Casson walked on towards the stones. "Fancy being under the same roof with a young degenerate like that!" he said to himself. "I wish now I hadn't decided to stay so long." Slashing at the grass and other herbage with his stick--a trick Casson always resorted to when unsettled or annoyed--he reached the stones, and was about to turn into the yard when he received something of a surprise. A man in flannels, with a chocolate, white, and blue striped blazer, passed him by and, crossing the yard, vanished round an angle of the house. Casson did not see his face, but the back of his head, his figure, and walk at once recalled Wotherall. "If that's not Ralph," Casson exclaimed, "I'll eat my hat! I wonder why he's come back? It will give him a bit of a surprise when he sees me." At the front door he ran into Mrs. Griffiths, who, with an apron full of French beans, was making for the kitchen. "Have you seen him?" Casson inquired. "Seen who?" Mrs. Griffiths rejoined. "The man in the blazer, of course," Casson replied. "Mr. Wotherall, wasn't it?" "Mr. Wotherall!" Mrs. Griffiths exclaimed, stopping short and staring hard at Casson. "You seem to have got Mr. Wotherall on the brain. Mr. Wotherall is nowhere near here--leastways, if he is, I've seen no signs of him." "Why, there he is!" Casson cried excitedly, pointing at a window, through which he saw a figure in the familiar Harleyan House blazer saunter slowly by. "That is Wotherall. He hasn't altered in the least. See, he's looking straight in here--at me! I'll go and speak to him!"