en he saw him, and he knew that Mr.
Clendon was a gentleman and one of a very fine type; seen in befitting
surroundings, Mr. Clendon would have filled completely the part of a
nobleman; and yet he was poor and living in Brown's Buildings. Derrick
felt strangely drawn towards the old man, but told himself that it was
because Mr. Clendon was a friend of Celia's--Derrick had already learned
to call her 'Celia' in his mind.

Then the fact that she was librarian to Lord Sutcombe recurred to him.
It was a strange coincidence, one of the strangest; and as he faced it,
Derrick's intention to go straight to the Hall and ask for Celia became
changed. He did not want to meet the Sutcombes: it was just possible
that Heyton and Miriam would be there; and most certainly he did not
want to meet them. He uttered a groan of impatience: he would not be
able to go to the Hall; he would have to find some means of meeting her
elsewhere; every moment of delay, every moment that stood between him
and the sight of her, assumed the length of years. With his brows knit,
and his heart in a state of rebellion, he got out at the little station
and looked round him wistfully, irresolutely.

There was a fly at the station steps, but he was in too much of a fever
to ride in a crawling vehicle, and he inquired of a sleepy porter the
direction of the nearest inn.

"There's no inn here, sir," said the man. "You see, this is really only
the station for the Hall; but you'll find a small kind of place in the
village farther on; it's called Fleckfield; it's rather more than a
couple of miles."

Derrick gave his small portmanteau to the flyman and told him to drive
there, and he himself set out walking.

Climbing a hill at a little distance from the station, he caught sight
of the tower of a big house and knew that it must be Thexford Hall. And,
within those walls, was the girl he loved! He set his teeth and strode
on, resentful of every yard that took him from her instead of to her.

A signpost directed him to Fleckfield, and presently he came to the
village and to the little inn in the middle of the single street. It was
a rustic looking place, with the usual bench and table outside it; and
on the former was seated a young fellow in a knicker-bocker suit. He was
writing busily on a pad which rested on his knee, and he looked up with
an absent, far-away expression in his eyes as Derrick strode in upon his
solitude.

"Good afternoon," he said, pleasan