Adrian Rowton had never yet seen any reason to check his inclinations, whatever they might be. Nancy Follett’s father was an ogre, but Rowton was clever enough quickly to gain an entrance into the deserted old house. He made love to the father for the sake of the daughter, and to the surprise of everyone in the place, was soon allowed to visit at the Grange as often as he liked. It was just Rowton’s luck, said other young men who also admired pretty Nancy Follett, but then they looked at one another and wondered what they meant, for if people knew nothing of Dr. Follett and his daughter, they knew still less of Adrian Rowton. He rented a little shooting lodge about half a mile away from the Grange. It was called the Bungalow, and would have been to most men a singularly unattractive place. The house was tumble-down and out of repair, and Rowton took no pains to keep the grounds in order. He arrived at the Bungalow two years before this story opens, accompanied by a man-servant, a rough-looking fellow with a bulldog head and a singularly unprepossessing face; also by several dogs, and a large supply of guns and ammunition. Rowton had taken the shooting of a large neighbouring estate and in the autumn he occupied himself with his favourite pastime as long as daylight permitted. When the shooting season was over he generally shut up the Bungalow and disappeared, returning, however, any day or night quite unexpectedly and for no apparent reason. He supplied Nancy Follett with plenty of game, but what he did with the rest he never told to anyone. He used to drive about the country on a high dog-cart, and one day brought two or three thoroughbred horses with him from London. People talked a good deal about him, for he had an air of mystery which tantalised curiosity. He was tall, well set up, and strikingly handsome—too dark, perhaps, for the conventional Englishman, but so plucky, such a good sportsman, and withal so gay and bright when he pleased, that against his own inclination and against the secret prejudice of most of the neighbours, he was quickly invited to the best houses in the place, and was, in short, a universal favourite. On a certain night towards the end of a particularly tempestuous November, Rowton was riding home from Andover. He was a reckless horseman, and always rode mercilessly. The beast on which he was sitting this special night was only half broken in. Suddenly he heard himself shouted to by an angry voice. “Hullo! take care, can’t you; do you want to ride right through my gig?” Adrian pulled up his horse fiercely, the animal reared, he sprang from its back and exclaimed with a hearty voice: “A thousand pardons; I never saw you, Dr. Read.” Dr. Read, who was also standing by his horse, faced the young man with a smile. “You nearly rode into me,” he said. “You ought not to give reins to an animal of that sort on a dark night.”