Heyland, and then turned off to the right, across what seemed to be a
wide stretch of bleak, open country.

Over the heath we went, our head-lights glaring far before us, for about
two miles when my friend called to Bennett:

"Turn to the left at the cross-roads."

And a few moments later we were travelling rather cautiously up a rough
by-road, at the end of which we came to a long, old-fashioned house--a
farm-house evidently, transformed into a residence.

The door was opened by a middle-aged, red-faced man-servant, and as I
stepped within the small hall hung with foxes' masks, brushes, and other
trophies, my friend wished me a hearty welcome to his home.

The dining-room proved to be an old-fashioned apartment panelled from
floor to ceiling. The table, set for two, bore a fine old silver
candelabra, a quantity of antique plate, and, adorned with flowers, was
evidently the table of a man who was comfortably off.

We threw off our heavy coats and made ourselves cosy beside the fire
when the servant, whom my host addressed as Henry, brought in the soup.
Therefore we went to the table and commenced.

The meal proved a well-cooked and well-chosen one, and I congratulated
him upon his cook.

"I'm forty, and for twenty years I was constantly on the move," he
remarked, with a laugh. "Nowadays I'm glad to be able to settle down in
England."

A moment later I heard the sound of a car leaving the house.

"Is that my car?" I asked, rather surprised.

"Probably your man is taking it round to the back in order to put it
under cover. Hark! it has started to rain."

To me, however, the sound, growing fainter, was very much as though
Bennett had driven the car away.

The wines which Henry served so quietly and sedately were of the best.
But both my host and myself drank little.

Sandford was telling me of the strange romance concerning his sister
Ellen and young Bingham--a man who had come into eight thousand a year
from his uncle, and only a few days later had met with an accident in
Swindon, having been knocked down by a train at a level-crossing.

Presently, after dessert, our conversation ran upon ports and their
vintages, when suddenly my host remarked:

"I don't know whether you are a connoisseur of brandies, but I happen to
have a couple of rather rare vintages. Let's try them."

I confessed I knew but little about brandies.

"Then I'll teach you how to test them in future," he laughed, adding,
"Henry, bri