As he came up to The Woodman Inn he remembered, what he had forgotten in the morning, that he had left his cigar-case on the dining-room mantel-shelf. He pulled up, and giving Adonis to the hostler, who rushed forward promptly, he went into the inn. There was no one in the hall, and knowing that he should be late for luncheon, he opened the dining-room door and walked in, and straight up to the fireplace.

The cigar-case was where he had left it, and he turned to go out. Then he saw that he was not the only occupant of the room, for a lady was sitting in the broad bay-window. He s.n.a.t.c.hed off his cap and murmured an apology.

"I beg your pardon! I did not know anyone was in the room," he said.

The lady was young and handsome, with a beauty which owed a great deal to colour. Her hair was a rich auburn, her complexion of the delicate purity which sometimes goes with that coloured hair--"milk and roses,"

it used to be called. Her eyes were of china blue, and her lips rather full, but of the richest carmine. She was exquisitely dressed, her travelling costume evidently of Redfern's build, and one hand, from which she had removed the glove, was loaded with costly rings; diamonds and emeralds as large as nuts, and of the first water.

But it was not her undeniable beauty, or her dress and costly jewellery, which impressed Stafford so much as the proud, scornfully listless air with which she regarded him as she leant back indolently--and a little insolently--tapping the edge of the table with her glove.

"Pray don't apologise," she said, languidly. "This is a public room, I suppose!"

"Yes, I think so," said Stafford, in his pleasant, frank way; "but one doesn't rush into a public room with one's hat on if he has reason to suppose that a lady is present. I thought there was no one here--the curtain concealed you: I am sorry."

She shrugged her shoulders and gave him the faintest and most condescending of bows; then, as he reached the door, she said:

"Do you think it will be moonlight to-night?"

Stafford naturally looked rather surprised at this point-blank meteorological question.

"I shouldn't be surprised if it were," he said. "You see, this is a very changeable climate, and as it is raining now it will probably clear up before the evening."

"Thanks!" she said. "I am much obliged--"

"Oh, my opinion isn't worth much," he put in parenthetically, but she went on as if he had not spoken.

--"I should be still further obliged if you would be so kind as to tell my father--he is outside with the carriage somewhere--that I am tired and that I would rather not go on until the cool of the evening."

"Certainly," said Stafford.

He waited a moment to see if she had any other requests, or rather orders, and then went out and found the gentleman with the strongly marked countenance, in the stable-yard beside the carriage to which the hostler and the help were putting fresh horses.

Stafford raised his hat slightly.

"I am the bearer of a message from the young lady in the dining-room, sir," he said. "She wishes me to tell you that she would prefer to remain here until the evening."

The man swung round upon him with an alert and curious manner, half startled, half resentful.

"What the devil--I beg your pardon! Prefers to remain here! Well!" He muttered something that sounded extremely like an oath, then, with a shrug of his shoulders, told the hostler to take the horses out. "Thank you!" he said to Stafford, grudgingly. "I suppose my daughter is tired: very kind of you."

"Not at all," responded Stafford, politely; and he got on to Adonis, which Mr. Groves himself had led out, and rode away.

The gentleman looked after him with knitted brows.

"What is the name of that young fellow?" he asked of Groves.

"That is Mr. Stafford Orme, Sir Stephen's son, sir," replied Groves.

The gentleman was walking towards the house, but he pulled up short, his eyes narrowed themselves to slits and his thick lips closed tightly.

"A fine young fellow, sir!" said Groves, with respectful enthusiasm. "A splendid specimen of an English gentleman!"

The gentleman grunted and went on to the dining-room.

"What whim is this, Maude?" he asked, irritably.

She yawned behind her beringed hand.

"I am tired. I can't face that stuffy carriage again just yet. Let us dine here and go on afterwards in the cool."

"Oh, just as you like," he said. "It makes no difference to me!"

"I know," she a.s.sented. Then, in an indolently casual way, she asked:

"Who was that gentleman who rode by just now?"

Her father glanced at her suspiciously as he took off his overcoat.

"Now, how on earth should I know, my dear Maude!" he replied, with a short, harsh laugh. "Some young farmer or cattle dealer, I imagine."

"I said _gentleman_," she retorted, with something approaching insolence. "You will permit _me_ to know the difference."

Her father coloured angrily, as if she had stung him.

"You'd better go upstairs and take off your things while I order dinner," he said.

CHAPTER IX.

As Stafford rode homewards he wondered whom the strange pair could be.

It was evident they were not going to stay at the Villa, or they would have driven straight there; but it was also evident that the gentleman had heard of Sir Stephen's "little place," or he would not have asked where it was; but, as Stafford reflected, rather ruefully, it would be difficult for any traveller pa.s.sing through the neighbourhood not to see the new, great white house, or to hear something, perhaps a very great deal, of the man who had built it.

Howard sauntered down the hall to meet him.

"Good heavens, how wet you look, and, needless to add, how happy. If there is anything in the doctrine of the transmigration of souls, my dear Stafford, your future embodiment will be that of a Newfoundland dog. Such an extremely strong pa.s.sion for cold water is almost--er--indecent. I've had a lovely morning in the library; and your father is still at work with his correspondence. I asked him what he thought of Lord Palmerston's aphorism: that if you left your letters unanswered long enough they answered themselves; and he admitted it was true, and that he had sometimes adopted the plan successfully. There is a secretary with him--a dark and silent man named Murray, who appears to have an automatic, double-action brain; anyway he can write a letter and answer questions at the same time. And he watches your father's lips as if he--the secretary, not Sir Stephen--were a dog waiting for a stone to be thrown. It is interesting to watch--for a time; then it gets on one's nerves. May I ask where you have been?"

"Oh, just for a ride; been trying the new horse: he's a clinker! The governor couldn't have got hold of a better if he'd searched all Arabia, and Hungary to boot. I'll just change and get some lunch. I hope you haven't waited?"

"Your hope is not in vain, young man," replied Howard, suavely; "but I will come and sit beside you while you stoke."

With Measom's aid Stafford was soon into dry clothes and seated at lunch, and, as he had promised, Howard drew a chair to the table, and contemplated him with vicarious enjoyment.

"What an appet.i.te you have!" he drawled, admiringly. "I imagine it would stand by you, even if you were in love. As a specimen of the perfectly healthy animal you stand preeminent, my dear Stafford. By the way, shall I spoil your lunch if I read you out a list of the guests whom we are expecting this afternoon? Sir Stephen was good enough to furnish me with it, with the amiable wish that I might find some friend on it. What do you say to Lord and Lady Fitzharford; the Countess of Clansford; the Baron Wirsch; the Right Honourable Henry Efford; Sir William and Lady Plaistow--"

Stafford looked up and smiled.