“What on earth does this mean?” continued Bertie. Instead of replying, his companion took a cigar case from the mantelshelf and tossed it to him, then slowly and deliberately lit a pipe. Bertie took a cigar, but instead of lighting it, stared round the room at the old oak chairs and table, at the gun and pistol rack over the fireplace, at the books in the bookcase, at the grave and singularly handsome face of his host. “A light?” said Mr. Faradeane, with a smile which was almost an amused one. “Better smoke, my dear Bertie; there is nothing like tobacco on these occasions.” Bertie pliantly and helplessly lit his cigar, and, still staring at the dark, thoughtful face, said: “Well, this beats----” “Cock fighting,” filled in Mr. Faradeane. “Fire off all your battery of astonishment, my dear Bertie. Don’t mind me.” “Yes; but I say!” exclaimed Bertie. “This is--don’t you know--extraordinary! What on earth! My dear----” “Faradeane,” put in the other, quietly. Bertie sprang to his feet, but the strong, white hands fell softly on his shoulders and forced him into his chair again. “Take time, Bertie,” he said, grimly, “take half an hour, if you like. But don’t forget that my name is Faradeane.” Bertie leaned forward and stared at him for a moment in densest perplexity; then he laughed. “Confound it!” he said, “this is the strangest business; Why, my dear----” “Faradeane,” put in the other, with a faint smile. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, Bertie; but if walls have ears, as they say they have, I have the strongest objection to their hearing the name you will persist in trying to shout. I know what you want to say, what you want to ask. You want to ask me why I am living in this out-of-the-way place, and why I decline--absolutely decline--to be addressed by any other name than that which I have, I am afraid, rather obtrusively given you.” “By George!” said Bertie, puffing at his cigar, “that’s just what I do want to know! I parted from you rather more than two years ago in London, and left you as jolly and chirpy as a cricket; well, not exactly that, for you never were one of the mad ones; but you were all right, at any rate, and now----It’s the strangest business! Why, I scarcely knew you just now, when you came up with the dog; you’ve--you’ve----” “Aged so much!” finished Faradeane, with a grim smile, as he leaned against the mantelshelf and looked down at Bertie’s bewildered face. “Yes, I have aged, Bertie. But not so much as some people have done. Didn’t Marie Antoinette’s hair turn white in two days? Whereas mine, you see, has only got speckled in a couple of years. Still, I’ll admit I am, as you say, changed.” “What--what has happened, old fellow?” asked Bertie, in a lowered voice. “I’m afraid you have had some big trouble----” The other looked down at him and then at the floor, and appeared to be considering some question. Presently he looked up again and shook his head.