“I can tell you all I know about the fellow easily enough,” he answered readily. “You'll have to go elsewhere for any real information about his past; but, so far as I'm concerned, I met him here. My nephew, Derek, brought him home to spend his leave with us at Foxhills. That was in 1916. In the spring of '17, he was slightly wounded; and we asked him down again to stay with us when he was convalescent. He married my niece in April 1917. The marriage wasn't a success—quite the other thing. The fellow was a scoundrel of the worst brand. In September 1917 we learned privately that he had got into the black books of the military authorities; and my private impression—it's only that, for I really don't know—my private impression was that he ran the risk of a firing-party. What I heard was a rumour that he'd been given a chance to rehabilitate himself in the field. There was a big attack being mounted at the moment, and he was sent in with the rest. That was the last we heard of him. After the attack, he was posted as missing; and a while later still the War Office returned some of his things to my niece. It seems they'd found a body with his identity disc on it. Naturally we were relieved.” He halted for a moment; then, seeming to feel that he had put the matter in an unnecessarily callous way, he added: “He was a thoroughly bad lot, you understand? I caught him once trying to forge my name to a cheque for a good round figure.” Sir Clinton nodded his thanks for the information. “Then I suppose one has to assume that in some way or other he managed to escape, after exchanging identity discs with somebody who was really killed,” he suggested. “It's not difficult to see how that could be done.” Wendover interposed. “More difficult than it looks at first sight, Clinton. How do you imagine that he could conceal himself after the battle? He'd have to give some account of himself then.” “Oh, I expect he went amongst people who didn't know his substitute by sight. That wouldn't be difficult.” “He'd be picked up and sent back to his supposed unit very soon—the dead man's unit, I mean. And then the fat would be in the fire.” “Obviously he wasn't sent back, then, squire, if you prefer it so,” Sir Clinton conceded, turning to Fordingbridge. “What we've heard just now accounts well enough for Staveley being associated with your nephew lately—I mean the man who's living at Flatt's cottage.” “Is there a nephew of mine at Flatt's cottage?” Paul Fordingbridge questioned coldly. “I don't know with certainty that I have a nephew alive at all.” “He calls himself Derek Fordingbridge, if that's any help.” “Oh, you mean that fellow? I've no proof that he's my nephew.” “I should like to hear something more about him, if you don't mind,” Sir Clinton suggested.