Lovell's face. The good humor and bonhomie called up by this last
evening amongst his old friends had disappeared. His face had fallen
into graver lines, his eyes seemed fixed with a curious introspective
steadiness on a huge calendar which hung from the wall. When at last
he turned towards Aynesworth, his tone was almost solemn.

"Some of them don't lie so very far from the surface, Walter," he
said. "There is one"--he took out his watch--"there is one which, if
you like, I will tell you about. I have just ten minutes."

"Good!"

"Go ahead, Lovell, old chap!"

"Have a drink first!"

He held out his hand. They were all silent. He stood up amongst them,
by far the tallest man there, with his back to the chimney piece, and
his eyes still lingering about that calendar.

"Thirteen years ago," he said, "two young men--call them by their
Christian names, Wingrave and Lumley--shared a somewhat extensive
hunting box in Leicestershire. They were both of good family, well
off, and fairly popular, Lumley the more so perhaps. He represented
the ordinary type of young Englishman, with a stronger dash than usual
of selfishness. Wingrave stood for other things. He was reticent and
impenetrable. People called him mysterious."

Lovell paused for a moment to refill his pipe. The sudden light upon
his face, as he struck a match, seemed to bring into vivid prominence