No sooner was breakfast over on the morning after the arrival of himself and his sister than he set out on foot for a long ramble. The way he took led him in the direction of Stanbrook, and when he reached the village of that name, which, as we know, lay within a bowshot of the Hall, he marched into the bar parlor of the White Hart Inn and called for a bottle of the best sherry the house could furnish. Such an order was attended to by the landlord in person, which was just what Ferris had counted on. After they had chatted together for a few minutes about the weather and the crops, there was nothing out of the common in the Captain asking the worthy Boniface to join him over a glass of his own wine. A second glass helped to loose the latter's tongue, after which the rest was easy. They gossiped together for upwards of an hour before Ferris went his way. There was no need for him to seek further information elsewhere; he had learnt all he wanted to know. What he had heard impressed him greatly; nor was its effect less marked upon his sister, who was, however, inclined to be skeptical with regard to some of the details. One thing was evident to both: Mrs. Bullivant must go to Stanbrook on the morrow and ascertain for herself how matters were progressing. CHAPTER XV. "FATE POINTS THE WAY." "Well, how did you fare? How much longer is the old scoundrel going to keep Beelzebub out of his own?" These questions were addressed by Captain Ferris to his sister, who had just got back from Stanbrook. He had been awaiting her return with ill-concealed impatience. It seemed to him that she had been gone an unconscionable time. "My dear Wilton, I wish you wouldn't flurry one so. I will tell you all there is to tell if you will give me time. But first of all, mix me a little brandy-and-water." Having taken off her outdoor things, inducted her feet into a pair of roomy house-shoes, and planted herself in her favorite easy-chair Mrs. Bullivant was ready to begin her narrative: "In the first place, the rumors which have reached us from various quarters about Mr. Cortelyon's amazing recovery are not a bit exaggerated. I know for a fact that, at the time I saw him last, he had been given up by both his doctors, and was not expected to last the week out. If I ever saw a man with death in his face, it seemed to me he was that man. When I left him I bade him (mentally) a final farewell. So far so good. But what do I find to-day on reaching Stanbrook? The same man, truly, and yet another. Not the Ambrose Cortelyon whom I left at death's door, on whose face I saw already the shadow of the tomb, but Ambrose Cortelyon as I remember him a number of years ago. For him Time's dial has been put back a decade. Can you wonder if, for a few moments, I was struck dumb with astonishment?