"We went there," he cried. "Mother got something for her cough, so she couldn't have any supper. We stayed at a horrid old woman's, a nasty, cross thing." "You did not go to the Union, then?" "No, we had some money, a whole shilling and some pennies." Mr. Aston said something under his breath and Mr. Stapleton murmured "tut-tut-tut." "That's how we first missed the trail, Stapleton," he said, and then as they walked up a steep hill he spoke to the boy. "Christopher, I want you to tell me anything you remember about your mother and the old days if you wish it, but you must not talk about that to Aymer. It would make him unhappy." "Who is Aymer?" asked Christopher, not unreasonably. "Aymer is my son, my eldest son. You are going to live with him." "Is he a boy like me?" "No, he is quite big, grown up, but he can't get about as you can, he is--a cripple." He said the words with a sort of forced jerk and half under his breath, but Christopher heard them and shivered. "Do you live there, too?" he asked, pressing a little nearer the man who was no longer a stranger. "Live where?" "With the--your son." "Yes, I live there too. My boy couldn't get on without me--and here's the White Elephant, which means supper and bed for a tired young man. Jump down, Christopher." CHAPTER II The spirit of waning July hung heavily over London. In mean streets and alleys it was inexpressibly dreary: the fagged inhabitants lacked even energy to quarrel. But on the high ground westward of the Park, where big houses demand elbow-room and breathing space and even occasionally exclusive gardens, a little breeze sprang up at sundown and lingered on till dusk. In this region lies one of the most beautiful houses in London, the country seat of some fine gentleman in Queen Anne's day. It hid its beauties, however, from the public gaze, lying modestly back in a garden whose size had no claim to modesty at all. All one could see from the road, through the iron gates, was a glimpse of a wide portico, and a long row of windows. It stood high and in its ample garden the breeze ran riot, shaking the scent from orange and myrtle trees, from jasmine and roses, and wafting it in at the wide open windows of a room which, projecting from the house, seemed to take command of the garden. It was a large room and the windows went from ceiling to floor. It was also a very beautiful room. In the gathering dusk the restful harmonies of its colours melted into soft, hazy blue, making it appear vaster than it really was. Also, it was unencumbered by much furniture and what there was so essentially fitted its place that it was unobtrusive. Three big canvases occupied the walls, indiscernible in the dim light, but masterpieces of world fame, heirlooms known all over Europe. There was a curious dearth of small objects and unessentials, nothing in all the great space that could fatigue the eye or perplex the brain of the occupant.