le still belonged to it, but the last Weston had signally
failed to make a living out of it, or to meet his debts. He lived in a
little town not far away, and let Scarthwaite for the shooting when he
could, which explains how Major Kinnaird had taken it.

Ida looked about her as she came down the stairway. It led into a
dark-paneled, stone-arched hall, which, since habitable space was
rather scarce at Scarthwaite, served as general living-room. A fire
was burning in the big, ancient hearth, and a handful of people were
scattered here and there, waiting for dinner, which should have been
ready a few minutes earlier. Kinnaird, who appeared a trifle
impatient, was standing near his wife and a couple of shooting men,
and his daughter was talking to one or two of his neighbors. Ida
smiled as one of the latter glanced up at her, and she moved toward
him when she reached the foot of the stairway. Ainslie, the owner of
some quarries in the vicinity, was a middle-aged man whom she had met
once or twice before.

When she had greeted him, she stood still a moment or two, listening
to the murmurs of general conversation. Then she saw Kinnaird, who was
standing not far from her, take out his watch.

"It's a little too bad of Weston. I shouldn't have waited for anybody
else," he said. "As it is, I suppose we'll have to give him a minute
or two longer."

The remark was evidently overheard, as perhaps Kinnaird intended. One
of the others laughed.

"Ralph Weston was never punctual in his life," he said.

"Considering everything," observed one of the women standing near Ida,
"it is rather curious that Weston should have promised to come at all.
It must be a trifle embarrassing to dine at one's own place as another
man's guest."

"Oh," said the man beside her, "Weston would go anywhere for a good
dinner and a good glass of wine."

Ida, as it happened, had not heard what guests Mrs. Kinnaird had
expected, and she started at the name. It was a moment or two later
when she turned to her companion.

"This house belongs to the man they seem to be waiting for?" she
asked.

Ainslie nodded.

"Yes," he said, "I suppose it does."

"Then why doesn't he live in it?"

"It takes a good deal to keep up a place of this kind, and, until
Major Kinnaird came, it's some time since anybody seriously attempted
it."

"Ah!" said Ida. "Mr. Weston's means are insufficient?"

"It's a tolerably open secret. There are a good many people similarly