he round table and stood in the center
of the stone floor. She caught a glance which flashed between the two
men--of appeal from the one, of icy resentment from the other.

"We can at least add to the roof a bed and some supper--and a welcome,"
John declared. "Is that not so, Stephen?"

The older man turned deliberately away. It was as if he had not heard
his brother's words.

"I will go and find Jennings," he said. "He must be told about the
servants."

Louise watched the disappearing figure until it was out of sight. Then
she looked up into the face of the younger man, who was standing by her
side.

"I am sorry," she murmured apologetically. "I am afraid that your
brother is not pleased at this sudden intrusion. Really, we shall give
you very little trouble."

He answered her with a sudden eager enthusiasm. He seemed far more
natural then than at any time since he had ridden up from out of the
shadows to take his place in her life.

"I won't apologize for Stephen," he said. "He is a little crotchety. You
must please be kind and not notice. You must let me, if I can, offer you
welcome enough for us both."

II

Louise, with a heavy, silver-plated candlestick in her hand, stood upon
the uneven floor of the bedroom to which she had been conducted, looking
up at the oak-framed family tree which hung above the broad
chimney-piece. She examined the coat of arms emblazoned in the corner,
and peered curiously at the last neatly printed addition, which
indicated Stephen and John Strangewey as the sole survivors of a
diminishing line. When at last she turned away, she found the name upon
her lips.

"Strangewey!" she murmured. "John Strangewey! The name seems to bring
something into my memory. Have I ever known any one with such a name,
Aline?"

The maid shook her head.

"Never, _madame_, to the best of my belief," she declared. "Yet I, too,
seem to have heard it, and lately. It is perplexing. One has seen it
somewhere. One finds it familiar."

Louise shrugged her shoulders. She stood for a moment looking around her
before she laid down the candlestick.

The room was of unusual size, with two worm-eaten beams across the
ceiling; the windows were casemented, with broad seats in each recess.
The dressing table, upon which her belongings were set out, was of
solid, black oak, as was also the framework of the huge sofa, the
mirror, and the chairs. The ancient four-poster,