It was a time-honored custom at Gray Manor that Harkness should serve
tea at half-past four in the Chinese room.

On this day--another November day, ten years after the events of the
last chapter--Harkness slipped through the heavy curtains with his tray
and interrupted Madame Forsyth, mistress of Gray Manor, in deep confab
with her legal advisor, Cornelius Allendyce.

Mr. Allendyce was just saying, crisply, "Will your mind not rest easier
for knowing that the Forsyth fortune will go to a Forsyth?" when
Harkness rattled the cups.

Then, strangest of all things, Madame ordered him sharply away with his
tray.

Such a thing had never happened before in Harkness' experience and he
had been at Gray Manor for fifty-five years. He grumbled complainingly
to Mrs. Budge, the housekeeper, and to Florrie, Madame's own maid, who
was having a sip of tea with Mrs. Budge in the cosy warmth of the
kitchen.

Florrie asserted that she could tell them a story or two of Madame's
whims and cranks--only it would not become her, inasmuch as Madame was
old and a woman to be pitied. "Poor thing, with this curse on the
house, who wouldn't have jumps and fidgets? I don't see I'm sure how any
of us stand it." But Florrie spoke with a hint of satisfaction--as
though proud to serve where there was a "curse." Harkness and Mrs.
Budge, who had lived at Gray Manor when things were happier, sighed.

"It's an heir they be talking about now," Harkness admitted.

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Mrs. Budge and Florrie in one breath.

Up in the Chinese room Madame Forsyth was saying; "Do you think any
child of that--branch of the family--could take the place of--"

"Oh, dear Madame," interrupted the lawyer. "I am not suggesting such a
thing! I know how impossible that would be. But on my own responsibility
I have made investigations and I have ascertained that your husband's
nephew has the one child. The nephew's an artist of sorts and doubtless
has his ups and downs--most artists do. Now I suggest--"

"That I take this--child--"

Mr. Allendyce tactfully ignored the scorn in her voice. "Exactly," he
purred. "Exactly. Gordon is the child's name. A very nice name, I am
sure."

"The child of an obscure artist--"

"Ah, but, Madame, blood is blood. A Forsyth--"

"P'ff!" Madame made a sound like rock hitting rock. Indeed, as she sat
there, her narrow eyes gleaming from her immobile face, her thin lips
tightly compressed, she looked much more like r