everted to the
other interests that lay closer at hand. He found himself wondering how
his entertainers would appear on a second inspection; whether, like his
room, they would take on a more commonplace semblance with the advent
of daylight. The touch of irrepressible and human curiosity that the
speculation aroused gave a spur to the business of dressing; and it was
well under the twenty minutes usually devoted to his neat and careful
toilet when he found himself crossing the corridor and descending the
stairs.

He encountered no one as he passed through the hall; and catching a
fresh suggestion of sunshine through the door that stood hospitably
open, he paused for an instant to take a cursory glance at the
gravelled sweep that terminated the drive, and the grassy slope
surmounted by a fringe of beeches that formed the outlook from the
front of the house. Then he turned quickly, and, recrossing the hall,
passed into the dining-room.

None of the household had yet appeared, but here also the daylight had
worked changes.

The curtains were drawn back, permitting the view of fields and sea,
that he had already studied from his bedroom, to break uninterruptedly
through the three lofty windows. The effect was one of extreme airiness
and light; and it was quite a minute before his gaze turned to the
darker side of the room, where the portrait of the famous Anthony
Asshlin hung above the fire.

Realising that he was alone in the big room, he crossed to the table
where breakfast was already laid--the remains of the enormous ham
rising from an untidy paper frill to defy the attacks of the largest
appetite. In the brilliance of the light, the fineness of the table
linen and its state of dilapidation were both accentuated, as was the
genuine beauty and intrinsic value of the badly kept silver.

But Milbanke had no time to absorb these details, for instantly he
reached the table his eye was caught by a folded slip of paper lying by
his place. With a touch of surprise he stooped forward and picked it
up; then a wave of annoyance, almost of guilt, succeeded the surprise
as he realised that it was a cheque made out in Asshlin's straggling
handwriting for his losses of the night before.

As he fingered it uncomfortably a vivid remembrance of his interview
with Clodagh rose to his mind. He thought of the poverty, suggested
rather than expressed by the girl's words; he thought of the Muskeere
horse-dealer who had all but emptied