As Stafford rode homewards he wondered whom the strange pair could be.
It was evident they were not going to stay at the Villa, or they would
have driven straight there; but it was also evident that the gentleman
had heard of Sir Stephen's "little place," or he would not have asked
where it was; but, as Stafford reflected, rather ruefully, it would be
difficult for any traveller passing through the neighbourhood not to
see the new, great white house, or to hear something, perhaps a very
great deal, of the man who had built it.

Howard sauntered down the hall to meet him.

"Good heavens, how wet you look, and, needless to add, how happy. If
there is anything in the doctrine of the transmigration of souls, my
dear Stafford, your future embodiment will be that of a Newfoundland
dog. Such an extremely strong passion for cold water is
almost--er--indecent. I've had a lovely morning in the library; and
your father is still at work with his correspondence. I asked him what
he thought of Lord Palmerston's aphorism: that if you left your letters
unanswered long enough they answered themselves; and he admitted it was
true, and that he had sometimes adopted the plan successfully. There is
a secretary with him--a dark and silent man named Murray, who appears
to have an automatic, double-action brain; anyway he can write a letter
and answer questions at the same time. And he watches your father's
lips as if he--the secretary, not Sir Stephen--were a dog waiting for a
stone to be thrown. It is interesting to watch--for a time; then it
gets on one's nerves. May I ask where you have been?"