n't kept you going too long. We are just getting in."

"Don't mind me," said West.

Babbacombe was slackening speed.

"It's a fine hunting country," he observed.

"Whose is it?" asked West.

"Mine, most of it." They were running smoothly down a long avenue of
beech trees, with a glimpse of an open gateway at the end.

"It must take some managing," remarked West.

"It does," Babbacombe answered. "It needs a capable man."

They reached the gateway, passing under an arch of stone. Beyond it lay
wide stretches of park land. Rabbits scuttled in the sunshine, and under
the trees here and there they had glimpses of deer.

"Ever ridden to hounds?" asked Babbacombe.

The man beside him turned with a movement half savage.

"Set me on a good horse," he said, "and I will show you what I can do."

Babbacombe nodded, conscious for the first time of a warmth of sympathy
for the man. Whatever his sins, he must have suffered infernally during
the past twelve years.

Twelve years! Ye gods! It was half a life-time! It represented the whole
of his manhood to Babbacombe. Twelve years ago he had been an
undergraduate at Cambridge.

He drove on through the undulating stretches of Farringdean Park, his
favourite heritage, trying to realise what effect twelve years in a
convict prison would have had upon himself, what his outlook would
ultimately have become, and what in actual fact was the outlook and
general attitude of the man who had come through this long purgatory.

Sweeping round a rise in the ground, they came into sudden sight of the
castle. Ancient and splendid it rose before them, its battlements
shining in the sun--a heritage of which any man might be proud.

Babbacombe waited for some word of admiration from his companion. But he
waited in vain. West was mute.

"What do you think of it?" he asked at last, determined to wring some
meed of appreciation from him, even though he stooped to ask for it.

"What--the house?" said West. "It's uncommonly like a primeval sort of
prison, to my idea. I've no doubt it boasts some very superior
dungeons."

The sting in the words reached Babbacombe, but without offence. Again,
more strongly, he was conscious of that glow of sympathy within him,
kindling to a flame of fellowship.

"It boasts better things than that," he said quietly, "as I hope you
will allow me to show you."

He was conscious of the piercing gaze of West's eyes, and, after a
moment, he deliberately turned