“There is a fellow I am interested in from a business point of view,” he began, “who has been hanging about this place, off and on, for the last five and twenty years, I believe, though I have never happened to meet him. He is a drinking man, and altogether a bad lot; but it is my business to hunt him down.” “On account of some property, I suppose?” “Yes, on account of some property. Now, I know what an observer you are, Dolby, and what a wonderful memory you have——” “I haven’t wasted it up in London,” interjected Dolby. “A week in Oxford Street and the Strand would take ten years off my memory. It’s pretty clear at present, thank God. Well, now, what about this fellow, what kind of a fellow is he—a gentleman or a cad?” “He was once a gentleman, but he may have tumbled pretty low by this time. He was going down hill at a good pace five and twenty years ago.” “Egad, then he must be at the bottom of the hill, I take it. What is he like—fat or lean, dark or fair, short or tall?” “A tall man, fair complexion, a man who has once been handsome, a showy-looking man,” answered Theodore, quoting the house-agent. “That will do. Yes, just such a man as that was at the Arms one night—six—eight—upon my word I believe it must have been ten years ago. A man who put on a good deal of side, though his clothes were no end seedy—ragged edges to his trousers, don’t you know—and though his hand shook like an aspen leaf. I played a fifty game with him, and I should say, though I beat him easy, that he had once been a fine player. He was in wretched form, poor creature, but——” “Ten years ago, do you really think it was as long ago you saw him?” “I know it was. It would be in seventy-four, that was the year Potter was returned for Screwmouth. I remember we were all talking of the election the night that fellow was there. Yes, I remember him perfectly; a tall, fair man, a wreck, but with the traces of former good looks. I fancy he must have been a soldier. He slept at the Arms that night, and I met him rather early next morning, before nine o’clock, coming away from the Chase—met him within ten yards of the West Lodge.” “Did he talk about Lord Cheriton?” “A good deal—talked rather wild, too—and would have blackguarded your cousin if we hadn’t shut him up pretty sharply. He pretended to have been intimate with him before he made his way at the Bar, and he talked in the venomous way a man who has been a failure very often does talk about a man who has been a success. It’s only human nature, I suppose. There’s a spice of venom in human nature.” “Have you never seen this man at Cheriton since that occasion—never within the last ten years?”