He nodded.

"I am," he answered.

She looked him over from head to foot. There was scarcely an inch of his person which did not speak of poverty and starvation.

"You have had trouble," she remarked.

"I have," he admitted.

"The lady who wrote that letter," she said, "is at present in Spain."

He turned to go.

"I am not surprised," he answered. "My star is not exactly in the ascendant just now."

"Don't be too sure," she said. "And whatever you do, don't go away.

Sit down if you are tired. You don't seem strong."

"I am not," he admitted. "Would you like," he added, "to know what is the matter with me?"

"It is nothing serious, I hope?"

"I am starving," he declared, simply. "I have eaten nothing for twenty-four hours."

She looked at him for a moment as though doubting his words. Then she moved rapidly to a desk which stood in a corner of the room.

"You are a very foolish person," she said, "to allow yourself to get into such a state, when all the time you had this letter in your pocket. But I forgot," she added, unlocking the desk. "You had not read it. You had better have some money to buy yourself food and clothes, and come here again."

"Food and clothes!" he repeated, vaguely. "I do not understand."

She touched the letter with her forefinger.

"You have a very powerful friend here," she said. "I am told to give you whatever you may be in need of, and to telegraph to her, in whatever part of the world she may be, if ever you should present this letter."

Saton began to laugh softly.

"It is the turn of the wheel," he said. "I am too weak to hear any more. Give me some money, and I will come back. I must eat or I shall faint."

She gave him some notes, and watched him curiously as he staggered out of the room. He forgot the lift, and descended by the stairs, unsteadily, like a drunken person, reeling from the banisters to the wall, and back again. Out in the street, people looked at him curiously as he turned northward toward Oxford Street. His eyes searched the shop-windows. He hurried along like a man feverishly anxious to make use of his last stint of strength. He was in search of food!

CHAPTER II

OLD ACQUAINTANCES

Rochester was walking slowly along the country lane which led from the main road to Beauleys, when the hoot of a motor overtaking him caused him to slacken his pace and draw in close to the hedge-side. The great car swung by, with a covered top upon which was luggage, a chauffeur, immaculate in dark green livery, and inside, two people. Rochester caught a glimpse of them as they pa.s.sed by--the woman, heavily m.u.f.fled up notwithstanding the warm afternoon, old and withered; the man, young, with dark, sallow complexion, and thoughtful eyes. They were gone like a flash. Yet Rochester stood for a moment in the road looking after them, before he turned into a field to escape the cloud of dust. The man's face was peculiar, and strangely enough it was familiar. He racked his brains in vain for some clue to its ident.i.ty--searched every corner of his memory without success.

Finally, with a little shrug of his shoulders, he dismissed the subject.

He was soon to be reminded of it, though, for when he reached home, he was told at once that a gentleman was waiting to see him in the study.

Then Rochester, with a little gasp of surprise, recalled that likeness which had puzzled him so much. He knew who his visitor was! He walked toward the study, filled with a curious--perhaps, even, an ominous sense of excitement!...

They were face to face in a few seconds. The man was unchanged. The boy alone was altered. Rochester's hair was a little grayer, perhaps, but his face was still smooth. His out-of-door life and that wonderful mouth of his, with its half humorous, half cynical curve, still kept his face young. To the boy had come a change much more marked and evident. He was a boy no longer--not even a youth. He carried himself with the a.s.sured bearing of a man of the world. His thick black hair was carefully parted. His clothes bore the stamp of Saville Row. His face was puzzling. His eyes were still the eyes of a dreamer, the eyes of a man who is content to be rather than to do. Yet the rest of his face seemed somehow to have suffered. His cheeks had filled out. His mouth and expression were no longer easy to read. There were things in his face which would have puzzled a physiognomist.

Rochester had entered the library and closed the door behind him. He nodded toward the man who rose slowly to greet him, but ignored his outstretched hand.

"I am sure that I cannot be mistaken," he said. "It is my young friend of the hillside."

"It is he," Saton answered. "I scarcely expected to be remembered."

"One sees so few fresh faces," Rochester murmured. "You have kept the condition, then? I must confess that I am glad to see you. I shall hope that you will have a great deal that is interesting to tell me.

At any rate, it is a good sign that you have kept the condition."

"I have kept the condition," Saton answered. "I was never likely to break it. I have wandered up and down the world a good deal during the past five years, and I have met many strange sorts of people, but I have never yet met with philanthropy on such a unique scale as yours."

"Not philanthropy, my young friend," Rochester murmured. "I had but one motive in making you that little gift--curiosity pure and simple."

"Forgive me," Saton remarked. "We will call it a loan, if you do not mind. I am not going to offer you any interest. The five hundred pounds are here."

He handed a little packet across to Rochester, who slipped it carelessly into his pocket.

"This is romance indeed!" he declared, with something of the old banter in his tone. "You are worse than the industrious apprentice.

Have I, by chance, the pleasure of speaking to one of the world's masters--a millionaire?"

The young man laughed. His laugh, at any rate, was not unpleasant.

"No!" he said. "I don't suppose that I am even wealthy, as the world reckons wealth. I have succeeded to a certain extent, although I came very, very near to disaster. I have made a little money, and I can make more when it is necessary."

"Your commercial instincts," Rochester remarked, "have not been thoroughly aroused, then?"

The young man smiled.

"Do I need to tell you," he asked, "that great wealth was not among the things I saw that night?"

"That was a marvelous motor-car in which you pa.s.sed me," remarked the other.

"It belongs to the lady," Saton said, "who brought me down from London."

Rochester nodded.

"It will be interesting to me," he remarked, "later on, to hear something of your adventures. To judge by your appearance, and your repayment of that small amount of money, you have prospered."

"One hates the word," Saton murmured, with a sudden frown upon his forehead. "I suppose I must admit that I have been fortunate to some extent. I am able to repay my debt to you."

"That," Rochester interrupted, "is a trifle. It was not worth considering. In fact I am rather disappointed that you have paid me back."

"I was forced to do it," Saton answered. "One cannot accept alms."