At that moment we both became aware that a third person was on the scene. He was a well set-up man, with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He was dressed in a dark-blue serge suit and a tweed cap. He stepped quietly through the trees, and went up to my companion, and said: “Ah! there you are, Mr. Gateshead. I’m afraid it’s almost time for your afternoon nap, sir.” And then, turning to me, he nodded and remarked: “A warm afternoon, sir!” He spoke with a quiet, suave voice that somehow conveyed the feeling of the “iron hand in the velvet glove.” His voice seemed to have a sedative effect on Mr. Gateshead. My companion did not look at him, but he seemed to shrink within himself. A certain flush that had accompanied his excitement vanished, and his face looked old and set. He drew his narrow shoulders together and his figure bent. He stood abstractedly for a few moments, gazing at the trees around him, and then, with a vague gesture that was characteristic of him, he clutched the lapels of his coat, and with his head bent forward he walked away towards the building. He did not cast a glance in my direction, and the man in the serge suit nodded to me and followed him leisurely. I clambered down the slope of the wood, and for some reason felt happy to get once more upon the road. About half a mile from Corlesham I met the postman coming up the hill, wheeling his bicycle. He was a sandy-haired man, splendidly Saxon, with gray-blue eyes and broad mouth. I asked him if there was a footpath to Corlesham, and he directed me. “Do you have a long round?” I asked. “Three or four mile, maybe,” he said, looking at me narrowly. “It’s a good pull up to the Institution,” I ventured. “What institution might that be?” he said, and his mild blue eyes disarmed me with their ingenuousness. “The house with the three red gables,” I answered. “Oh!” came the reply. “You mean old Gateshead’s.” “Does he own it?” I said incredulously. “Ay, and he could own six others for all the difference it would make to his money. He owns half the county.” “And yet what a strange idea,” I murmured insinuatingly. “To own a large house and yet to have one’s letters delivered in a wood!” The postman swung his bag into a more comfortable position and looked across his machine at me with a grin. “Those as has money can afford to have any ideas they like,” he said at last. “I’m afraid his money doesn’t make him very happy,” I ventured, still groping for further enlightenment. The postman gave his right pedal a vigorous twirl as a hint of departure. He then took out a packet of Navy Cut cigarettes and lighted one. This action seemed to stimulate his mental activities, and he leant on the handle-bars and said: