"As you have been good enough to ask me to share your fly," the man observed, with a rather aggressive touch of irony, "I may as well let you know who I am. My name is Henshaw, Clement Henshaw." "Any relation to Gervase Henshaw?" Gifford asked. "He is my brother. You know him?" "Only by reputation at my profession, the Bar. And I came across a book of his the other day." "Ah, yes. Gervase scribbles when he has time. He is by way of being an authority on criminology." "And is, I should say," Gifford added civilly. "Yes; he is a smart fellow. Has the brains of the family. I'm all for sport and the open-air life." "And yet," thought Gifford, glancing at the dark, rather intriguing face opposite to him, "you don't look a sportsman. More a _viveur_ than a regular open-air man, more at home in London or Paris than in the stubbles or covert." But he merely nodded acceptance of Henshaw's statement. "My name is Kelson," the soldier said, supplying an omission due to Henshaw's talk of himself. "I have hunted this country pretty regularly since I left the Service. And my friend is Hugh Gifford." "Gifford? Did not Wynford Place where we are going to-night belong to the Giffords?" Henshaw asked, curiosity overcoming tact. "Yes," Gifford answered, "to an uncle of mine. He sold it lately to Morriston." "Ah; a pity. Fine old place," Henshaw observed casually. "Naturally you know it well." "I have had very good times there," Gifford answered, with a certain reserve as though disinclined to discuss the subject with a stranger. "I have come down now also for old acquaintance' sake," he added casually. "I see," Henshaw responded. "Not altogether pleasant, though, to see an old family place in the hands of strangers. Personally, when a thing is irrevocably gone, as, I take it, Wynford Place is, I believe in letting it slide out of one's mind, and having no sentiment about it." "No doubt a very convenient plan," Gifford replied dryly. "All the same, if I can retrieve my evening kit, which has gone astray, I hope to enjoy myself at Wynford Place to-night without being troubled with undue sentimentality." "Good," Henshaw responded with what seemed a half-smothered yawn. "Regret for a thing that is gone past recall does not pay; though as long as there is a chance of getting it I believe in never calling oneself beaten. Here we are at the _Lion_." CHAPTER II THE STAINED FLOWERS "What do you think of our acquaintance?" Gifford said as they settled down in the private room of Kelson, who made the _Golden Lion_ his hunting quarters. "Not much. In fact, I took a particular dislike to the fellow. Wrong type of sportsman, eh?" "Decidedly. Fine figure of a man and good-looking enough, but spoilt by that objectionable, cock-sure manner." "And I should say a by no means decent character." "A swanker to the finger-tips. And that implies a liar."