country towns are
hopeless."

"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