He wore a suit of black, and a soft hat of Panama straw with a broad brim, and held in his hand a something strange to me, and, indeed, as yet almost unknown in England—­an umbrella.  It had a dusky white covering, and he held it by the middle, as though he had been engaged in taking measurements with it when my entrance surprised him.

It appeared to me for the moment that I had not only surprised him but frightened him, for the face he turned to me wore a yellowish pallor like that of old ivory.  Yet when he drew himself up and spoke, I seemed to know in an instant that this was his natural colour.  The face itself was large and fleshy, with bold, commanding features:  a face, on second thoughts, impossible to connect with terror.

“Hallo, little boy!  What are you doing in this garden?”

I answered him, stammering, that I was come to bathe; and while I answered I was still in two minds about running; for his voice, appearance, bearing, all alike puzzled me.  He spoke genially, with something foreign in his accent.  I could not determine his age at all.  At first glance he seemed to be quite an old man, and not only old but weary; yet he walked without a stoop, and as he came slowly across the turf to the bridge-end I saw that his hair was black and glossy, and his large face unwrinkled as a child’s.

“Not after the plums, eh?”

“No, sir; and besides,” said I, picking up my courage, “there’s no harm if I am.  The garden belongs to me.”

“So?” He regarded me for some seconds, his hands clasping the umbrella behind his back.  The sight of the bundle of black clothes I carried apparently satisfied him.  “Then you have right to ask what brings me here.  I answer, curiosity.  What became of the man who did it?” he asked, with a glance over his shoulder towards the summer-house.

“Nobody knows, sir,” I answered, recovering myself.

“Disappeared, hey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I fancy I could put my hand on him,” he said very coolly, after a pause.  And I began to think I had to deal with a madman.

“Suppose, now, that I do catch him,” he went on after a pause.  “What shall I do with him?  In my country—­for I live a great way off—­we either choke a murderer or cut off his head with a knife.”

I told him—­since he waited for me to say something—­how in England we disposed of our worst criminals.

“No, you don’t,” said he quietly.  “You let some of the worst go, and the very worst (as you believe) you banish to an island, treating them as the old Romans treated theirs.  Now, I’m a traveller; and where do you suppose I spent this day month?”

I could not give a guess.