Mr Arundel-Mallory, more commonly known as Mr Mallory, and in Warton almost invariably mentioned as the Squire, was at that time a tall, though not upright gentleman of fifty, with hair that was perfectly white, though his eyebrows remained dark. His white hair perhaps made him appear older than he was, but he preserved the appearance of a remarkably handsome man, with great refinement of manner and of carriage, with quiet movements and a singularly gentle smile. His eyes had the abstraction of a dreamer, but his lips were mobile, and their expression could on occasions appear both hard and keen; they had subtle lines, and the lines of his face were subtle, with more wrinkles about them than might have been expected. In his youth Mr Mallory had been spoken of as _wild_, and had spent more money in Paris than could be accounted for; but after his marriage with a descendant of the French nobility he had come home to England to settle on his estate. Two heavy sorrows awaited him; his beautiful, young wife died in the year after their marriage; and that grief was succeeded by the loss of his son when he was thirteen years old. After this last trouble, Mr Mallory, who had long given up society, secluded himself with more determination than before; and devoted his time to literature, and the collection of old pictures, rarely rousing himself otherwise except to do some kindness to any one who could claim a connection with his wife or son. He was a man who was regarded with interest, but yet who was not loved; who was imposed upon by many, and feared and hated by a few; a man too clear-sighted to be altogether gentle, but too abstracted and indifferent to be clear-sighted every day. The Squire was a gentle landlord, as all the parish knew; but his resentment, when roused, could not be appeased again. This was the master before whom Nat stood on the morning which succeeded the night of his sister’s disappearance; and who, as he entered, turned on him an anxious glance, which revealed more sympathy than he might have been expected to show. It had long been a matter of remark in Warton and its neighbourhood that the Squire had an especial favour for Jenny Salter’s son. ‘Ah! so you have come,’ said Mr Arundel-Mallory, gently; ‘I am glad to see you, for I have some errands for you to-day. You look tired; sit down. Whilst I write out your commissions you will be able to rest.’