Cayley grunted.

“All I knew was that one didn’t ask questions about him.”

It may have been meant as a hint to any too curious guest not to ask more questions, or a reminder to his host not to talk too freely in front of strangers, although he gave it the sound of a mere statement of fact.  But the subject dropped, to be succeeded by the more fascinating one of the coming foursome.  Mrs. Calladine was driving over with the players in order to lunch with an old friend who lived near the links, and Mark and Cayley were remaining at home—­on affairs.  Apparently “affairs” were now to include a prodigal brother.  But that need not make the foursome less enjoyable.

At about the time when the Major (for whatever reasons) was fluffing his tee-shot at the sixteenth, and Mark and his cousin were at their business at the Red House, an attractive gentleman of the name of Antony Gillingham was handing up his ticket at Woodham station and asking the way to the village.  Having received directions, he left his bag with the station-master and walked off leisurely.  He is an important person to this story, so that it is as well we should know something about him before letting him loose in it.  Let us stop him at the top of the hill on some excuse, and have a good look at him.

The first thing we realize is that he is doing more of the looking than we are.  Above a clean-cut, clean-shaven face, of the type usually associated with the Navy, he carries a pair of grey eyes which seem to be absorbing every detail of our person.  To strangers this look is almost alarming at first, until they discover that his mind is very often elsewhere; that he has, so to speak, left his eyes on guard, while he himself follows a train of thought in another direction.  Many people do this, of course; when, for instance, they are talking to one person and trying to listen to another; but their eyes betray them.  Antony’s never did.

He had seen a good deal of the world with those eyes, though never as a sailor.  When at the age of twenty-one he came into his mother’s money, 400 pounds a year, old Gillingham looked up from the “Stockbreeders’ Gazette” to ask what he was going to do.

“See the world,” said Antony.

“Well, send me a line from America, or wherever you get to.”

“Right,” said Antony.

Old Gillingham returned to his paper.  Antony was a younger son, and, on the whole, not so interesting to his father as the cadets of certain other families; Champion Birket’s, for instance.  But, then, Champion Birket was the best Hereford bull he had ever bred.