me for _Monsieur Pierre_?" he said, spreading out his hands,
"_Mais--_"

"I didn't ask for anything," growled Sir Beverley. "I rang the bell to
tell you and all the other fools to lock up and go to bed."

"But--me!" ejaculated Victor, rolling his eyes upwards in astonishment.

"Yes, you! Where's the sense of your sitting up? Master Piers knows how
to undress himself by this time, I suppose?"

Sir Beverley scowled at him aggressively, but Victor did not even see the
scowl. Like a hen with one chick, and that gone astray, he could think of
naught beside.

"_Mais Monsieur Pierre_ is not here! Where then is _Monsieur Pierre?_" he
questioned in distress.

"How the devil should I know?" snarled Sir Beverley. "Stop your chatter
and be off with you! Shut the window first, and then go and tell David to
lock up! I shan't want anything more to-night."

Victor shrugged his shoulders in mute protest, and went to the window.
Here he paused, looking forth with eyes of eager searching till recalled
to his duty by a growl of impatience from his master. Then with a
celerity remarkable in one of his years and rotundity, he quickly popped
in his head and closed the window.

"Leave the blind!" ordered Sir Beverley. "And the catch too! There! Now
go! _Allez-vous-en!_? Don't let me see you again to-night!"

Victor threw a single shrewd glance at the drawn face, and trotted with a
woman's nimbleness to the door. Here he paused, executed a stiff bow;
then wheeled and departed. The door closed noiselessly behind him, and
again Sir Beverley was left alone.

He dragged a chair to the window, and sat down to watch.

Doubtless the boy would return when he had walked off his indignation. He
would be sure to see the light in the study, and he would come to him for
admittance. He himself would receive him with a gruff word or two of
admonition and the whole affair should be dismissed. Grimly he pictured
the scene to himself as, ignoring the anxiety that was growing within
him, he settled himself to his lonely vigil.

Slowly the night dragged on. A couple of owls were hooting to one another
across the garden, and far away a dog barked at intervals. Old Sir
Beverley never stirred in his chair. His limbs were rigid, his eyes fixed
and watchful. But his face was grey--grey and stricken and incredibly
old. He had the look of a man who carried a burden too heavy to be borne.

One after another he heard the hours strike, but his position never