E. R. Punshon

“ 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?” ”

“ John Clive, as that he was unmarried, was said to be very wealthy, and had the reputation of being something of a ladies' man.
A little further on they parted, and Dunn took a side road which he calculated should lead him back to Bittermeads.
“It may be pure coincidence,” he mused as he walked slowly in a very troubled and doubtful mood. “But if so, it's a very queer one, and if it isn't, it seems to me Mr. John Clive might as well put his head in a lion's jaws as pay visits at Bittermeads. But of course he can't have the least suspicion of the truth—if it is the truth. ”

“ Why, they do say he caught two poachers in the wood there last month and brought 'em out one under each arm like a pair of squealing babes.”
“Did he, though?” said Dunn. “Take some doing, that, and I daresay the rest of the gang will try to get even with him for it.”
“Well, they do say as there's been threats,” the other agreed. “But what I says is as Mr. John can look after hisself all right. There was a tale as a man had been dodging after him at night, but all he said when they told him, was as if he caught any one after him he would thrash them within an inch of their lives.” ”