his."

Victor's gesture descriptive of the bent, stricken figure that had ridden
forth that morning was painfully true to life.

Piers sprang to his feet. "And he isn't back yet? Where on earth can he
be? Which way did he go?"

Victor raised his shoulders. "He go down the drive--as always. _Apres
cela, je ne sais pas._"

"Confusion!" ejaculated Piers, and was gone.

He had returned by a short cut across the park, but now he tore down
the long avenue, running like a trained athlete, head up and elbows in,
possessed by the single purpose of reaching the lodge in as brief a
time as possible. They would know at the lodge which way his
grandfather had gone.

He found Marshall just turning in at his gate for the midday meal, and
hailed him without ceremony.

The old man stopped and surveyed him with sour disapproval. The news of
Piers' abrupt disappearance on the previous night had spread.

No, Marshall could give him no news as to the master's whereabouts; he
had been out all the morning.

"Well, find Mrs. Marshall!" ordered Piers impatiently. "She'll know
something. She must have opened the gate."

Mrs. Marshall, summoned by a surly yell from her husband, stood in the
door-way, thin-lipped and austere, and announced briefly that Sir
Beverley had gone down towards the Vicarage; she didn't know no more
than that.

It was enough for Piers. He was gone again like a bird on the wing. The
couple at the lodge looked after him with a species of unwilling
admiration. His very arrogance fed their pride in him, disapprove
though they might of his wild, foreign ways. Whatever the mixture in
his veins, the old master's blood ran there, and they would always be
loyal to that.

That run to the Vicarage taxed even Piers' powers. The steep hill at the
end made him aware that his strength had its limits, and he was forced to
pause for breath when he reached the top. He leaned against the Vicarage
gate-post with the memory of that winter evening in his mind when Avery
had come swift-footed to the rescue, and had cooled his fury with a
bucket of cold water.

A step in the garden made him straighten himself abruptly. He turned to
see a tall, black-coated figure emerge. The Reverend Stephen Lorimer came
up with dignity and greeted him.

"Were you about to enter my humble abode?" he enquired.

"Is my grandfather here?" asked Piers.

Mr. Lorimer smiled benignly. He liked to imagine himself upon terms of
intimacy with Sir Beve