A chilly, rainy mist shrouded the country and blotted out the familiar beauty. Not a day for walking, but Christopher had chosen to tramp to a far-off corner of the estate on some pretence of business and had come back through the wet, dripping woods, burr-covered and muddy. He was met in the hall by a message that Mr. Aymer wanted him at once, so without waiting to change he strode away, whistling, to the West Room and came to a standstill on the threshold, finding Aymer had visitors with him. There were two gentlemen, one was Mr. Shakleton, the son and successor of the old solicitor who had played his part in the finding of Christopher, the other was a stout, complacent man with gold-rimmed glasses and scanty sandy hair, and all three of the occupants of the room looked towards the door as if waiting for and expecting him. A glance at Caesar's face brought Christopher swiftly to his side and established instantly a sense of antagonism with the visitors. "You want me, Caesar?" "Yes. We want you. Mr. Shakleton you know. This is Mr. Saunderson." Both men stood up and to Christopher's amazement bowed profoundly. "I am very honoured to meet you," said Mr. Saunderson suavely. "I hope it will be the commencement of a long and fruitful acquaintance." Christopher felt rather at a loss to know if the man meant to be impertinent or was merely being silly. He looked at Caesar with the hostile impatience he felt only too apparent. The hostility but not the impatience deepened as he noticed the drawn beaten look on Aymer's face. Also he was uncomfortably conscious of the three pairs of eyes watching him with rapt attention. The mild Mr. Shakleton, however, seemed entirely obscured by the expansive personality of the bigger man. "Confound him," thought Christopher, "has he never seen burrs on a wet coat before or is my tie up?" "Christopher," said Aymer, at last, "come and sit by me, will you. I think I should like to tell you myself." He looked at Mr. Saunderson as if waiting permission. "Of course, of course, Mr. Aston. I quite understand. It is not the sort of news we tell people every day." Christopher sat on the edge of the sofa with his eyes fixed on Caesar. "Are you sure it won't keep," he asked abruptly, "you look rather tired for business, Caesar." "It won't keep. It concerns Peter Masters. Mr. Saunderson says public rumour has underestimated his fortune rather than exaggerated it. He was worth nearly three millions." "Three millions six hundred and forty-one thousand." Mr. Saunderson rolled it out in sonorous tones after a little smack of his lips that set Christopher's teeth on edge. "It seems, Christopher," Aymer went on, with an abruptness that did not accord with his opening words, "that it's yours. You are his heir."