“I think he is in the fly, sir.”

“The devil he is!  We’ll have him out, Hugh.  Infernally cool.”  And he strode off towards the waiting fly.

“Better see what sort of chap he is before you go for him, Harry,” Gifford said deprecatingly as he followed.  He knew his masterful friend’s quick temper, and anticipated a row.

“If you don’t mind, this is my fly, sir,” Kelson was saying as Gifford reached him.

“The porter told me it was the Golden Lion conveyance,” a strong, deeply modulated voice replied from the fly.

“And I think he told you it was engaged,” Kelson rejoined bluffly.

“I did not quite understand that,” the voice of the occupant replied in an even tone.  “I am sorry if there has been any misunderstanding; but as I am going to the hotel—­”

“That is no reason why you should take our fly,” Kelson retorted, his temper rising at the other’s coolness.  “I must ask you to vacate it at once,” he added with heat.

“How many of you are there?” The man leaned forward showing in the doorway a handsome face, dark almost to swarthiness.  “Only two?  Surely there is no need to turn me out.  You don’t want to play the dog in the manger.  There is room for all three, and I shall be happy to contribute my share of the fare.”

“I don’t want anything of the sort—­”

Kelson was beginning angrily when Gifford intervened pacifically.

“It is all right, Harry.  We can squeeze in.  The fellow seems more or less a gentleman; don’t let’s be churlish,” he added in an undertone.

“But it is infernal impudence,” Kelson protested.

“Yes; but we don’t want a row.  It is not as though there was another conveyance he could take.”

“All right.  I suppose we shall have to put up with the brute,” Kelson assented grudgingly.  “But I hate being bounced like this.”

Gifford took a step to the carriage-door.  “I think we can all three pack in,” he said civilly.

“I’ll take the front seat, if you like,” the stranger said, without, however, showing much inclination to move.

“Oh, no; stay where you are,” Gifford answered.  “I fancy I am the smallest of the three; I shall be quite comfortable there.  Come along, Harry.”

With no very amiable face Kelson got in and took the vacant seat by the stranger.  His attitude was not conducive to geniality, and so for a while there was silence.  At length as they turned from the station approach on to the main road the stranger spoke.  His deep-toned voice had a musical ring in it, yet somehow to Gifford’s way of thinking it was detestable.  Perhaps it was the speaker’s rather aggressive and, to a man, objectionable personality, which made it seem so.

“I am sorry to inconvenience you,” he said, more with an air of saying the right thing than from any real touch of regret.  “On an occasion like this they ought to provide more conveyances.  But country towns are hopeless.”