s and downs in his
eleven years of life to be alarmed at this unexpected turn of fortune,
and he was still too young to grasp how great a change had been
wrought in that life since the hot hour he had spent lying by the
mile-stone on the Great Road.

As they clattered through the narrow streets of the country town in
the light of the long July evening Christopher sat up and rubbed his
eyes.

"I've been here before," he volunteered.

Mr. Aston effected a skilful pass between a donkey cart and two
perambulators.

"Yes, quite right, you have. What do you remember about it,
Christopher?"

The boy looked dubious and a little distressed, but just then they
passed a chemist's shop.

"We went there," he cried. "Mother got something for her cough, so she
couldn't have any supper. We stayed at a horrid old woman's, a nasty,
cross thing."

"You did not go to the Union, then?"

"No, we had some money, a whole shilling and some pennies."

Mr. Aston said something under his breath and Mr. Stapleton murmured
"tut-tut-tut."

"That's how we first missed the trail, Stapleton," he said, and then
as they walked up a steep hill he spoke to the boy.

"Christopher, I want you to tell me anything you remember about your
mother and the old days if you wish it, but you must not talk about
that to Aymer. It would make him unhappy."

"Who is Aymer?" asked Christopher, not unreasonably.

"Aymer is my son, my eldest son. You are going to live with him."

"Is he a boy like me?"

"No, he is quite big, grown up, but he can't get about as you can, he
is--a cripple."

He said the words with a sort of forced jerk and half under his
breath, but Christopher heard them and shivered.

"Do you live there, too?" he asked, pressing a little nearer the man
who was no longer a stranger.

"Live where?"

"With the--your son."

"Yes, I live there too. My boy couldn't get on without me--and here's
the White Elephant, which means supper and bed for a tired young man.
Jump down, Christopher."

CHAPTER II

The spirit of waning July hung heavily over London. In mean streets
and alleys it was inexpressibly dreary: the fagged inhabitants lacked
even energy to quarrel.

But on the high ground westward of the Park, where big houses demand
elbow-room and breathing space and even occasionally exclusive
gardens, a little breeze sprang up at sundown and lingered on till
dusk.

In this region lies one of the most beautiful houses in Lond