"Colonel Devereux is a very fortunate man," I remarked. The man's manner grew a shade more confidential, and I listened with more eagerness than I dared show. "Well, he should be, sir; but I doubt whether he thinks himself so. You see, his family ain't turned out exactly well. He married twice, and each wife died within two years of her marriage, and, strangely enough, each left him a son. Of course, when they grew up they both wanted to be soldiers. They do say, sir, that every Devereux for twelve generations has been a soldier. A bloodthirsty race they must be! But, as I was saying, they both became soldiers, and went out together in the same regiment for their first campaign. Well, they say that one of 'em, Mr. Herbert his name was, the elder of the two, and the old Colonel's favourite and heir, disgraced himself. Anyway, he was found guilty of cowardice, and turned out of his regiment. It very near killed the Colonel, and he's never been the same man since. He's taken a mortal dislike to his other son, Mr. Rupert, and, though he makes no secret of it that he's left him all his estates and property, he never lets him come down here scarcely." "But the title! He can't leave that to his second son," I said. "That must go to the one whom you say disgraced himself." "It just that that's troubling the Colonel more than anything," replied the man. "He says it makes him wild to think that the title of Devereux of Devereux must be borne by a coward, and that his picture gallery and grand old house must go to him, too. At times I have heard him pray that his son may be dead, and have died childless; and yet, hard old man though he is, it's easy to see, from the way he talks about him sometimes, that he's as fond of him as ever, though he'd never confess it. But I'm afraid I'm tiring you, sir. Family histories are not very interesting to strangers." To strangers! I could scarcely keep a sardonic smile from my lips as I echoed the words in my thoughts. "Not at all," I answered, as lightly as I could; "but I was going to ask you, who is there living with Sir Francis now?" "Well, there's no one living regularly with him, sir, except you count old Mrs. Platts, who really ain't much more than a housekeeper, though I believe she's a sort of distant connection. But, just now, there's Miss Maud Devereux, Mr. Rupert's daughter, and a friend of hers stopping here. Here we are at the cottage, Mr. Arbuthnot." The carriage had pulled up, and a tall footman was standing by the side of the open door. I helped Marian out, and looked around. A little distance in front there was a low wire fencing, and about fifty yards further back, with a dark plantation of fir-trees immediately behind it, was a long, low, grey stone house, with gabled roof and old-fashioned windows. As we approached, the door was thrown open, and two smiling, countrified-looking servants, with neat caps and aprons, stood in a flood of light to welcome us.