“I am afraid, mother, I shall not be able to offer my services to-day. I am bound for Chesterham this morning,” Stuart answered, vigorously attacking a pie on a side table. “Chesterham!” ejaculated his mother. “Why, what takes you there, Stuart?” “An appointment with Derwent. He has written and asked me to meet him at the junction on his way to town; he wants to see me.” “Why could not Captain Derwent come here for a few days?” inquired Mrs. Crosbie, coldly. She was annoyed that anything should interrupt the acquaintance that was progressing so satisfactorily. “He can’t; he is due in London.” “But must you go?” began his mother, when Vane interrupted with: “Oh, please don’t stop him, auntie, dear, or he will vote me such a nuisance! Indeed; we can spare Stuart for one day, and I will enjoy myself with you if you will let me. We have not driven to any places yet; shall we not go somewhere to-day?” “I shall be pleased,” Mrs. Crosbie replied, though she looked vexed; and all other remarks on the subject were stopped, to Stuart’s great relief, by his father’s appearance--Lady Charteris never left her room till noon. The squire came in with his curious halting gait; he carried a bundle of letters and papers in his hand, and his haggard features wore a look of surprise. “Good-morning, my dear,” he said to Vane. “Constance”--to his wife--“I have received a most extraordinary surprise. Read that”--holding out a letter. With ill-concealed impatience Mrs. Crosbie took the letter he held toward her. “What sort of a surprise, dad?” asked Stuart, putting his hand for an instant into his father’s. “Your mother will tell you,” answered the squire. “From Douglas Gerant!” exclaimed Mrs. Crosbie, gazing at the end of the letter. “This is a surprise indeed! Why, Sholto, he is in England--has been for the last month--and wants to come to us for a visit!” “By Jove!” was Stuart’s only utterance. “It seemed like a letter from the dead,” said the squire, dreamily. “What years since one has heard or seen anything of Douglas Gerant! It must be fifteen, at least, since he left England.” Mrs. Crosbie folded up the letter. “He is not changed,” she observed--“at least, his letter is as strange and erratic as of old. Vane, you have heard your mother speak of Douglas Gerant, have you not?” Miss Charteris puckered her brow. “I don’t remember his name,” she replied. “Who is he?” “Your mother’s cousin--surely she must have spoken of him!” “I have heard of Eustace Gerant,” Miss Charteris answered, “but he is dead.” “This is his brother. He, too, might have been dead for all that we have seen or heard of him. He was a ne’er-do-wee’l, an utter scamp.” “But with great good in him,” added the squire, warmly. “I know you did not think so, Constance, but Douglas always had a fine, generous nature.”