h like sanity just now. Has your husband had the charge of him long?'

Mrs. Steadman answered somewhat confusedly.

'A goodish time, sir. I can't quite exactly say--time passes so quiet in
a place like this. One hardly keeps count of the years.'

'Forty years, perhaps?'

Mrs. Steadman blenched under Lord Hartfield's steadfast look--a look
which questioned more searchingly than his words.

'Forty years,' she repeated, with a faint laugh. 'Oh, dear no, sir, not
a quarter as long. It isn't so many years, after all, since Steadman's
poor old uncle went a little queer in his head; and Steadman, having
such a quiet home here, and plenty of spare room, made bold to ask her
ladyship if he might give the poor old man a home, where he would be in
nobody's way.'

'And the poor old man seems to have a very luxurious home,' answered
Lord Hartfield. 'Pray when and where did Mr. Steadman's uncle learn to
smoke a hookah?'

Simple as the question was, it proved too much for Mrs. Steadman. She
only shook her head, and faltered some unintelligible reply.

'Where is your husband?' asked Lord Hartfield: 'I should like to have a
little talk with him, if he is disengaged.'

'He is not very well, my lord,' answered Mrs. Steadman. 'He has been
ailing off and on for the last six months, but I couldn't get him to see
the doctor, or to tell her ladyship that he was in bad health. And about
a week ago he broke down altogether, and fell into a kind of drowsy
state. He keeps about, and he does his work pretty much the same as
usual, but I can see that it's too much for him. If you like to come
downstairs I can let you through the lower door into the hall; and if he
should have woke up since I have left him he'll be at your lordship's
service. But I'd rather not wake him out of his sleep.'

'There is no occasion. What I have to say will keep till to-morrow.'

Lord Hartfield and his wife followed Mrs. Steadman downstairs to the low
dark hall, where an old eight-day clock ticked with hoarse and solemn
heat, and a fine stag's head over each doorway gave evidence of some
former Haselden's sporting tastes. The door of a small panelled parlour
stood half-way open; and within the room Lord Hartfield saw James
Steadman asleep in an arm-chair by the fire, which burned as brightly as
if it had been Christmas time.

'He was so chilly and shivery this afternoon that I was obliged to light
a fire,' said Mrs. Steadman.

'He seems to be sleeping heavi