"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. "I'm very sorry, I only meant
it was impossible it should be the same Mr. John Clive I knew once,
though I think he came from about here somewhere. A little,
middle-aged man, I mean, quite bald and wears glasses?"

"Oh, that ain't this 'un," answered the other, his good humour quite
restored. "This is a young man and tremendous big. I ain't so
small myself, but he tops me by a head and shoulders and so he does
most hereabouts. Strong, too, with it, there ain't so many would