A little before sunset he arrived, with his light suitcase in hand, before the gate of the long riverside gardens of Willowood Place, one of the smaller seats of Sir Isaac Hook, the master of much shipping and many newspapers.  He entered by the gate giving on the road, at the opposite side to the river, but there was a mixed quality in all that watery landscape which perpetually reminded a traveler that the river was near.  White gleams of water would shine suddenly like swords or spears in the green thickets.  And even in the garden itself, divided into courts and curtained with hedges and high garden trees, there hung everywhere in the air the music of water.  The first of the green courts which he entered appeared to be a somewhat neglected croquet lawn, in which was a solitary young man playing croquet against himself.  Yet he was not an enthusiast for the game, or even for the garden; and his sallow but well-featured face looked rather sullen than otherwise.  He was only one of those young men who cannot support the burden of consciousness unless they are doing something, and whose conceptions of doing something are limited to a game of some kind.  He was dark and well dressed in a light holiday fashion, and Fisher recognized him at once as a young man named James Bullen, called, for some unknown reason, Bunker.  He was the nephew of Sir Isaac; but, what was much more important at the moment, he was also the private secretary of the Prime Minister.

“Hullo, Bunker!” observed Horne Fisher.  “You’re the sort of man I wanted to see.  Has your chief come down yet?”

“He’s only staying for dinner,” replied Bullen, with his eye on the yellow ball.  “He’s got a great speech to-morrow at Birmingham and he’s going straight through to-night.  He’s motoring himself there; driving the car, I mean.  It’s the one thing he’s really proud of.”

“You mean you’re staying here with your uncle, like a good boy?” replied Fisher.  “But what will the Chief do at Birmingham without the epigrams whispered to him by his brilliant secretary?”

“Don’t you start ragging me,” said the young man called Bunker.  “I’m only too glad not to go trailing after him.  He doesn’t know a thing about maps or money or hotels or anything, and I have to dance about like a courier.  As for my uncle, as I’m supposed to come into the estate, it’s only decent to be here sometimes.”

“Very proper,” replied the other.  “Well, I shall see you later on,” and, crossing the lawn, he passed out through a gap in the hedge.

He was walking across the lawn toward the landing stage on the river, and still felt all around him, under the dome of golden evening, an Old World savor and reverberation in that riverhaunted garden.  The next square of turf which he crossed seemed at first sight quite deserted, till he saw in the twilight of trees in one corner of it a hammock and in the hammock a man, reading a newspaper and swinging one leg over the edge of the net.