"Is Lord Sutcombe at home?" asked Mr. Clendon, quietly, and not without

a certain dignity.

"His lordship the Marquess is within; suttenly; but----" The man

hesitated, with unconcealed suspicion.

"Will you tell his lordship, please, that a gentleman wishes to see

him?" said Mr. Clendon.

The porter looked beyond the bowed figure, as if he expected to see

someone else, the "gentleman" referred to; then, as he failed to see

anyone, he said, severely: "'Ave you an appointment? 'Is lordship don't see promiskus visitors."

Mr. Clendon seemed to consider for a moment; as if he had expected this

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difficulty. He wrote the single letter "W" on a piece of paper he found

in his pocket, and handed it to the man.

"Please give this to his lordship," he said, still with that quiet air

of dignity and composure which had impressed the porter, against his

will.

The man eyed the piece of paper doubtfully, and the applicant for

admission still more so; then, signing to the bench in the hall, by way

of permitting rather than inviting the old man to take a seat, he went

slowly up the broad stairs, lined with pictures and statuary, and

carpeted with thick Axminster. Mr. Clendon seated himself, leant both

hands on his stick and looked around him, not curiously, but with a

thoughtful, and yet impassive, expression. Presently the man came down,

with evident surprise on his well-fed countenance.

"Please follow me," he said; and Mr. Clendon followed him up the stairs,

and was ushered into a small room on the first floor. It was a library,

handsomely furnished and luxuriously appointed; a huge fire was burning

in the bronze grate, and, as its warmth went out to meet him, Mr.

Clendon thought of the fireless grate over which the young girl had

crouched. By the table, with one hand pressed hardly against it, stood a

middle-aged man, with a pale, careworn face; his hair was flecked with

grey; his thin lips drawn and drooping at the corners, as if their

possessor was heavily burdened by the cares of the world. That he was

agitated was obvious; for the lids flickered over his almost colourless

eyes, and the hand he held against his side was clenched tightly.

At sight of the old man he uttered a cry, the kind of cry with which one

might greet a ghost.

"Wilfred! You! You! Alive! I--we--thought you were dead."

"I am sorry," said Mr. Clendon. "Yes; I knew that you thought me dead.

It was just as well; I wished you to do so. Don't be alarmed; there is

nothing to be alarmed at. Permit me to sit down; I have walked some

distance."




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