They were walking side by side up the hotel-garden, and each successive group of visitors that they passed turned to stare.  For both men were in a fashion remarkable.  The massive strength of the elder with his square, dogged face and purposeful stride; the lithe, muscular power of the younger with his superb carriage and haughty nobility of feature, formed a contrast as complete as it was arresting.

They ascended the steps that led up to the terrace, and here Piers paused.  “You sit down here while I go and order drinks!  Here’s a comfortable seat, and here’s an English paper!”

He thrust it into Crowther’s hand and departed with a careless whistle on his lips.  But Crowther did not look at the paper.  His eyes followed Piers as long as he was in sight, and then with that look in them as of one who watches from afar turned contemplatively towards the sea.  After a little he took his hat off and suffered the morning-breeze to blow across his forehead.  He had the serene brow of a child, though the hair above it was broadly streaked with grey.

He was still sitting thus when there came the sound of jerky footsteps on the terrace behind him and an irascible voice addressed him with scarcely concealed impatience.

“Excuse me!  I saw you talking to my grandson just now.  Do you know where the young fool is gone to?”

Crowther turned in his solid, imperturbable fashion, looked at the speaker, and got to his feet.

“I can,” he said, with a smile.  “He has gone to procure drinks in my honour.  He and I are—­old friends.”

“Oh!” said Sir Beverley, and looked him up and down in a fashion which another man might have found offensive.  “And who may you be?”

“My name is Crowther,” said the other with simplicity.

Sir Beverley grunted.  “That doesn’t tell me much.  Never heard of you before.”

“I daresay not.”  Crowther was quite unmoved; there was even a hint of humour in his tone.  “Your grandson is probably a man of many friends.”

“Why should you say that?” demanded Sir Beverley suspiciously.

“Won’t you sit down?” said Crowther.

Sir Beverley hesitated a moment, then abruptly complied with the suggestion.  Crowther followed his example, and they faced one another across the little table.

“I say it,” said Crowther, “because that is the sort of lad I take him to be.”

Sir Beverley grunted again.  “And when and where did you make his acquaintance?” he enquired, with a stern, unsparing scrutiny of the calm face opposite.

“We met in Australia,” said Crowther.  “It must be six years or more ago.”

“Australia’s a big place,” observed Sir Beverley.

Crowther’s slow smile appeared.  “Yes, sir, it is.  It’s so mighty big that it makes all the other places of the world seem small.  Have you ever been in Queensland—­ever seen a sheep-farm?”

“No, I’ve never been in Queensland,” snapped Sir Beverley.  “But as to sheep-farms, I’ve got one of my own.”