He hesitated for a moment, half-minded to scale the wall and
continue on the other side of it to follow them.
Calculating the direction in which the village of Ramsdon must lie,
he turned that way and had gone only a short distance when he was
overtaken by a pedestrian with whom he began conversation by asking
for a light for his pipe.
The man seemed inclined to be conversational, and after a few casual
remarks, Dunn made an observation on the length of the wall they
were passing and to the end of which they had just come.
"Must be a goodish-sized place in there," he said. "Whose is it?"
"Oh, that there's Ramsdon Place," the other answered. "Mr. John
Clive lives there now his father's dead."
Dunn stood still in the middle of the road.
"Who? What?" he stammered. "Who--who did you say?"
"Mr. John Clive," the other repeated. "Why--what's wrong about
that?"
"Nothing, nothing," Dunn answered, but his voice shook a little
with what seemed almost fear, and behind the darkness of the
friendly night his face had become very pale. "Clive--John
Clive, you say? Oh, that's impossible."
"Needn't believe it if you don't want to," grumbled the other.
"Only what do you want asking questions for if you thinks folks
tells lies when they answers them?"
"I didn't mean that, of course not," exclaimed Dunn hurriedly, by
no means anxious to offend the other.
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