Mrs. Ackroyd’s eloquence was cut short as the drawing-room door opened once

more. I was pleased at the interruption. I hate interfering in other people’s

affairs, and I had not the least intention of tackling Ackroyd on the subject of

Flora’s settlements. In another moment I should have been forced to tell Mrs.

Ackroyd as much.

 

“You know Major Blunt, don’t you, doctor?”

 

“Yes, indeed,” I said.

 

A lot of people know Hector Blunt—at least by repute. He has shot more wild

animals in unlikely places than any man living, I suppose. When you mention him,

people say: “Blunt—you don’t mean the big game man, do you?”

 

His friendship with Ackroyd has always puzzled me a little. The two men are so

totally dissimilar. Hector Blunt is perhaps five years Ackroyd’s junior. They

made friends early in life, and though their ways have diverged, the friendship

still holds. About once in two years Blunt spends a fortnight at Fernly, and an

immense animal’s head, with an amazing number of horns which fixes you with a

glazed stare as soon as you come inside the front door, is a permanent reminder

of the friendship.

 

Blunt had entered the room now with his own peculiar, deliberate, yet

soft-footed tread. He is a man of medium height, sturdily and rather stockily