The hall more than made good the outside promise; it was brilliantly lighted, and behind Mapp and the servant who received him Vaughan had a passing glimpse of three or four men in full-dress livery. From the dining-room on his left issued peals of laughter, and voices, so clear that, though he had not the smallest reason to expect to hear them there, he was sure that he caught Bob Flixton’s tones. The discovery was not pleasing; but Mapp, turning the other way and giving him no time to think, went before him to the suite of state-rooms—which he had not seen in use more than thrice within his knowledge of the house. It must be so then—he thought with a slight shock of surprise. The place must be full! For the gilt mirrors in both the large and small drawing-rooms reflected the soft light of many candles, wood fires burned and crackled on the hearths, the “Morning Chronicle,” the “Quarterly,” and other signs of life lay about on the round tables, and an air of cheerful _bienséance_ pervaded all. What did it mean? “Sir Robert has finished dinner, sir,” Mapp said—even he seemed to wear an unusual air of solemnity. “He will be with you, sir, immediately. Hope you are well, sir?” “Quite well, Mapp, thank you.” Then he was left alone—to wonder if a second surprise awaited him. He had had one that day. If a second were in store for him what was its nature? Could Sir Robert on his side be going to offer him one of the seats—if he would recant? He hoped not. But he had not time to give more than a thought to that before he heard footsteps and voices crossing the hall. The next moment there entered the outer room—at such a distance from the hearth of the room in which he stood, that he had a leisurely view of all before they reached him—three persons. The first was a tall burly man in slovenly evening clothes, and with an ungainly rolling walk; after him came Sir Robert himself, and after him again, Isaac White. Vaughan advanced a step or two, and Sir Robert passed by the burly man, who had a pendulous under lip, and a face at once flabby and melancholy. The baronet held out his hand. “We have not quarrelled yet, Mr. Vaughan,” he said, with a cordiality which took Vaughan quite by surprise. “I trust and believe that we are not going to quarrel. I bid you welcome therefore. This,” he continued with a gesture of courteous deference, “is Sir Charles Wetherell, whom you know by reputation, and whom, for a reason which you will understand by and by, I have asked to be present at our interview.” The stout man eyed Vaughan from under bushy eyebrows. “I think we have met before,” he said in a deep voice. “At Westminster, Mr. Vaughan, on the 22nd of last month.” He had a habit of blinking as he talked. “I was beholden to you on that occasion.”