The squire lifted his hand from the book he held and half raised it to his well-shaven chin. “Redfern? A little while, perhaps. I really forget. Not long, anyway. That drunken individual at Pond Cottage persuaded him to go to them. It was with them he died. They told you that , I suppose?”

Mr. Urquhart’s voice was so placid and casual as he made these remarks that Wolf was seized with a sort of shame for letting his imagination run riot so among all these new acquaintances. “It’s the difference from London! That’s what explains it,” he thought to himself.

Mr. Urquhart now stopped scratching his chin with his delicate fingertips, and, bowing his head a little, fumbled once more with the pages of the book upon his knee. Wolf sank back into his deep armchair and stared at the man’s tweed trousers and shiny patent-leather shoes.