So we walked on together, side by side, through leafy byways and winding paths, past smiling cornfield and darkling wood; we talked of the Government, of country and town, of the Fashionable World and its most famous denizens, concerning which last my companion's knowledge seemed profound; we spoke but little of books, of which he seemed amazingly ignorant--in fine, we exchanged thoughts and reflections on any and everything except ourselves. And thus, as evening drew nigh, we came to the top of a hill. Here he stopped all at once and taking off his dilapidated hat, pointed with it up at the thing that rose above us, looming against the sunset-glory, beam, cross-bar and chain. "Look at that!" quoth he, staring up at something hideously warped and weather-beaten and clasped round with iron bands,--an awful shape that dangled from rusting chain. "But for my light heels--I might have come to that--and yet why not--his troubles are over. So in a year--six months--who knows,--there hang I--" "God forbid, Anthony?" cried I. Now at this he whirled round and, clapping his two hands upon my shoulders, burst forth into vehement oaths to my deep amazement until I saw the tears in his haggard eyes. "....Curse and confound it!" he ended. "Why must you call me Anthony!" "Because it is the only name I know you by, for one thing." "Well!" said he, blinking and scowling savagely. "And because I like the name of Anthony." "Oh! egad do you? Well, I like the name Peregrine." "Good!" said I, and we walked on down the hill together. "My other name is Vereker," I volunteered, seeing he was silent. "Vereker?" he repeated and stopped to stare at me. "No relation to Sir Jervas Vereker?" "His nephew!" "The devil you are!" And here he stood looking down at me from his superior height, rasping his fingers up and down his thin, unshaven cheek like one quite dumbfounded. "Do you happen to know my uncle?" "I do--or rather I did, humbly and at a distance, for Sir Jervas is, and always will be, magnificently aloof from all and sundry--but you know this, of course?" "On the contrary, though I have seen him frequently, I know him not in the least." "My dear Vereker--who does?" "My name is Peregrine!" said I, whereupon came that impulsive hand to rest lightly upon my shoulder again for a moment. "My dear Peregrine, your uncle is unique; there never was any one quite like him unless it were Sir Maurice Vibart, the famous Buck, though your uncle, perhaps, is not quite so coldly devilish; still, he's sufficiently remarkable." "How so?"