tely possess Myrtle Forge, a part of Shadrach, and a considerable
fortune. That was his obvious inheritance. But, suddenly, the material
thing, the actual, grew immaterial, and the visionary assumed a dark and
enigmatic reality.

Howat abruptly quitted the night of the lawn, his sombre questioning,
for the house. The candles had been extinguished in the drawing room. A
square, glass lamp hung at the foot of the stairs; and there he
encountered a man in a scratch wig, with a long nose flattened at the
end. He bowed obsequiously--a posturing figure in shirtsleeves with a
green cloth waistcoat and black legs. The Italian servant, Howat
concluded. He passed noiselessly, leaving a reek of pomatum and the
memory of a servile smile. Howat Penny experienced a strong sense of
distaste, almost depression, at the other's silent proximity. It
followed him to his room, contaminated his sleep with unintelligible
whispering, oily and disturbing gestures, and fled only at the widening
glimmer of dawn.

IV

The sun had almost reached the zenith before Mrs. Winscombe appeared
from her room. And at the same moment David Forsythe arrived on a spent
grey mare. He had come over the forty rough miles which separated Myrtle
Forge from the city in less than five hours. He was a year older than
Howat, but he appeared actually younger--a candid youth with high colour
and light, simply tied hair. He had, he told Howat, important messages
from his father to Mr. Winscombe. The latter and Gilbert Penny were
conversing amicably in the lower room at the right of the stairway--a
chamber with a bed that, nevertheless, was used for informal assemblage.
Mr. Winscombe wore an enveloping banian of russet brocade with deep
furred cuffs, and a turban of vermilion silk comfortably replacing a
wigged formality. Under that brilliant colour his face was as yellow as
an orange.

The written messages were delivered, and David returned to the lawn. The
day was superb--a crystal cold through which the sun's rays filtered
with a faintly perceptible glow. Caroline was standing at Howat's side,
and she gave his hand a rapid pressure as David Forsythe approached.
"Where's Myrtle?" the latter asked apparently negligently. Howat
replied, "Still in the agony of fixing her hair--for dinner; she'll be
at it again before supper." David whistled a vague tune. Caroline added,
"You've got fearfully dressy yourself, since London." He replied
appropriately, and then bec