Tristrams was more than that of a neighbor or beyond what an ancient
family with odd episodes in its history might naturally inspire.

"Oh, you must come to Blentmouth, Mr Neeld, you must indeed. For a few
days, now? Choose your time, only let it be soon. Why, if you made your
way into the library at Blent, you might happen on a find there! A lot
of interesting stuff there, I'm told. And we shall be very grateful for
a visit."

Neeld was conscious of a strong desire to go to Blentmouth. But it would
be a wrong thing to do; he felt that he could not fairly accept Iver's
hospitality. And he felt, moreover, that he had much better not get
himself mixed up with the Tristrams of Blent. No man is bound to act on
hearsay evidence, especially when that evidence has been acquired
through a confidential channel. But if he came to know the Tristrams, to
know Harry Tristram, his position would certainly be peculiar. Well,
that was in the end why he wanted to do it.

Iver rose and held out his hand. "I must go," he said. "Fairholme,
Blentmouth! I hope I shall have a letter from you soon, to tell us to
look out for you."

One of the unexpected likings that occur between people had happened.
Each man felt it and recognized it in the other. They were alone in the
room for the moment.

"Mr Iver," said Neeld, in his precise prim tones, "I must make a
confession to you. When you were up for this club I--my vote was not in
your favor."

During a minute's silence Iver looked at him with amusement and almost
with affection.

"I'm glad you've told me that."

"Well, I'm glad I have too." Neeld's laugh was nervous.

"Because it shows that you're thinking of coming to Blentmouth."

"Well--yes, I am," answered Neeld, smiling. And they shook hands. Here
was the beginning of a friendship; here, also, Neeld's entry on the
scene where Harry Tristram's fortunes formed the subject of the play.

It was now a foregone conclusion that Mr Neeld would fall before
temptation and come to Blentmouth. There had been little doubt about it
all along; his confession to Iver removed the last real obstacle. The
story in Josiah Cholderton's Journal had him in its grip; on the first
occasion of trial his resolution not to be mixed up with the Tristrams
melted away. Perhaps he consoled himself by saying that he would be,
like his deceased and respected friend, mainly an observer. The Imp, it
may be remembered, had gone to Merrion Lodge with exactly the sa