“Oh, it is all right,” Gifford responded politely.  “The drive is not very long.”

“A mile?” The man’s musical inflection jarred on Gifford, who began to wonder whether their companion could be a professional singer.  One of their own class he certainly was not.

“I presume you gentlemen are going to the Hunt Ball?” he asked.

“Yes,” Gifford answered.

“Rather a new departure having it in a private house,” the man said.  “Quite a sound idea, I have no doubt Morriston will do us as well—­much better than we should fare at the local hotel or Assembly Rooms.”

“Are you going?” They were the first words Kelson had uttered since the start, and the slight surprise in their tone was not quite complimentary.  It must have so struck the other, seeing that he replied with a touch of resentment: 

“Yes.  Why not?”

“No reason at all,” Kelson answered, except that I don’t remember to have seen you out with the Cumberbatch.”

“I dare say not,” the other rejoined easily.  “It is some years since I hunted with them.  I’m living down in the south now, and when I’m at home usually turn out with the Bavistock.  Quite a decent little pack, faute de mieux; and Bobby Amphlett, who hunts them, is a great pal of mine.”

“I see,” Kelson observed guardedly.  “Yes, I believe they are quite good as far as they go.”

The stranger gave a short laugh.  “They, or rather a topping old dog-fox, took us an eleven mile point the other day, which was good enough in that country.  Being in town I thought I would run down to this dance for old acquaintance’ sake.  Dare say one will meet some old friends.”

“No doubt,” Kelson responded dryly.

“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.