pied the south side of the square, and was
placed with its back to the moat.

"You see I have practically rebuilt those two towers," said the
Squire, pausing underneath the Norman archway. "If I had not done it,"
he added apologetically, "they would have been in ruins by now, but it
cost a pretty penny, I can tell you. Nobody knows what stuff that old
flint masonry is to deal with, till he tries it. Well, they will stand
now for many a long day. And here we are"--and he pushed open a porch
door and then passed up some steps and through a passage into an oak-
panelled vestibule, which was hung with tapestry originally taken, no
doubt, from the old Castle, and decorated with coats of armour, spear
heads, and ancient swords.

And here it was that Harold Quaritch once more beheld the face which
had haunted his memory for so many months.

CHAPTER III

THE TALE OF SIR JAMES DE LA MOLLE

"Is that you, father?" said a voice, a very sweet voice, but one of
which the tones betrayed the irritation natural to a healthy woman who
has been kept waiting for her dinner. The voice came from the recesses
of the dusky room in which the evening gloom had gathered deeply, and
looking in its direction, Harold Quaritch could see the outline of a
tall form sitting in an old oak chair with its hands crossed.

"Is that you, father? Really it is too bad to be so late for dinner--
especially after you blew up that wretched Emma last night because she
was five minutes after time. I have been waiting so long that I have
almost been asleep."

"I am very sorry, my dear, very," said the old gentleman
apologetically, "but--hullo! I've knocked my head--here, Mary, bring
me a light!"

"Here is a light," said the voice, and at the same moment there was a
sound of a match being struck.

In another moment the candle was burning, and the owner of the voice
had turned, holding it in such a fashion that its rays surrounded her
like an aureole--showing Harold Quaritch that face of which the memory
had never left him. There were the same powerful broad brow, the same
nobility of look, the same brown eyes and soft waving hair. But the
girlhood had gone out of them, the face was now the face of a woman
who knew what life meant, and had not found it too easy. It had lost
some of its dreaminess, he thought, though it had gained in
intellectual force. As for the figure, it was much more admirable than
the