“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.”

“Not worth discussing,” Kelson said.  “He goes to-morrow.  I made a point of inquiring how long he had engaged his room for.  One night.”

“Good.  Then we shan’t be under the ungracious necessity of shaking him off.  I can’t tell you how sick I am, Harry, at the loss of my things.”

“No more than I am, my dear fellow.  If only a suit of mine would fit you.  But that’s hopeless.”

They both laughed ruefully at the idea, for Captain Kelson looked nearly twice the size of his friend.

“We’ll hope they’ll arrive in time for you to see something of the fun at any rate,” Kelson said.  “I’m in no hurry; I’ll wait with you.”

“You will do nothing of the sort, Harry,” Gifford protested.  “Do you think I can’t amuse myself for an hour or two alone?  You’ll go off at the proper time.  Absurd to wait till every decent girl’s card is full.”

“I don’t like it, Hugh.”

“Nor do I. But it is practically my fault in not looking sharper after my luggage, and better one should suffer than two.”

So it was arranged that Captain Kelson should go on alone and his guest should follow as soon as his clothes turned up and he could change into them.