“Well, I’m bothered!” I said.

“So am I,” answered Anscombe, “to know the name of the Lydenburg district architect whom I should like to employ; though I suspect it is the surroundings that make the place look so beautiful.  Hullo! here comes somebody, but he doesn’t look like an architect; he looks like a wicked baronet disguised as a Boer.”

True enough, round a clump of bush appeared an unusual looking person, mounted on a very good horse.  He was tall, thin and old, at least he had a long white beard which suggested age, although his figure, so far as it could be seen beneath his rough clothes, seemed vigorous.  His face was clean cut and handsome, with a rather hooked nose, and his eyes were grey, but as I saw when he came up to us, somewhat bloodshot at the corners.  His general aspect was refined and benevolent, and as soon as he opened his mouth I perceived that he was a person of gentle breeding.

And yet there was something about him, something in his atmosphere, so to speak, that I did not like.  Before we parted that evening I felt sure that in one way or another he was a wrong-doer, not straight; also that he had a violent temper.

He rode up to us and asked in a pleasant voice, although the manner of his question, which was put in bad Dutch, was not pleasant,

“Who gave you leave to shoot on our land?”

“I did not know that any leave was required; it is not customary in these parts,” I answered politely in English.  “Moreover, this buck was wounded miles away.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed in the same tongue, “that makes a difference, though I expect it was still on our land, for we have a lot; it is cheap about here.”  Then after studying a little, he added apologetically, “You mustn’t think me strange, but the fact is my daughter hates things to be killed near the house, which is why there’s so much game about.”

“Then pray make her our apologies,” said Anscombe, “and say that it shall not happen again.”

He stroked his long beard and looked at us, for by now he had dismounted, then said—­

“Might I ask you gentlemen your names?”

“Certainly,” I replied.  “I am Allan Quatermain and my friend is the Hon. Maurice Anscombe.”

He started and said—­

“Of Allan Quatermain of course I have heard.  The natives told me that you were trekking to those parts; and if you, sir, are one of Lord Mountford’s sons, oddly enough I think I must have known your father in my youth.  Indeed I served with him in the Guards.”

“How very strange,” said Anscombe.  “He’s dead now and my brother is Lord Mountford.  Do you like life here better than that in the Guards?  I am sure I should.”

“Both of them have their advantages,” he answered evasively, “of which, if, as I think, you are also a soldier, you can judge for yourself.  But won’t you come up to the house?  My daughter Heda is away, and my partner Mr. Rodd” (as he mentioned this name I saw a blue vein, which showed above his cheek bone, swell as though under pressure of some secret emotion) “is a retiring sort of a man—­indeed some might think him sulky until they came to know him.  Still, we can make you comfortable and even give you a decent bottle of wine.”