A man with his hands in the back pockets of his coat, his hat set negligently into the nape of his neck--a thickset, well-to-do, little fellow, about thirty years of age, clad in a kind of semi-sporting style, with a straw in his mouth and much display of jewellery at his waistcoat--came leisurely down the front steps from a _porte-cochère_, which the late Laird had added to the old house--leisurely, we say, and with a very _insouciant_ air, and accorded a nod--bow it could not be called--to Roland and paused. 'Oh,' said he, 'Captain Lindsay, I presume?' 'Yes,' replied the other, with surprise, and curtly. 'Ah, welcome; we've been expecting you. Did you walk from the station?' 'I was obliged to do so----' 'Ah.' 'And you, sir?' asked Roland inquiringly. 'Mr. Sharpe--Hawkey Sharpe, at your service.' 'The new steward?' said Roland, repressing a vehement desire to kick him along the terrace. 'If you please to call me so.' ('What the devil else does he think I should call him?' thought Roland.) As Mr. Hawkey Sharpe neither touched nor lifted his hat Roland ignored his tardily proffered hand, which was replaced in his coat pocket. 'Had a pleasant morning journey, I hope.' 'Yes.' 'Ah, I am just going to the stables--all are well at home,' said this strange and very confident personage, passing on, while Roland stood for a moment rooted to the ground by the profound _insouciance_ of the man; but from _that_ moment there was a secret, if unnamed, hatred of each other in the eyes of these two--hate blended with contempt and indignation in those of Roland, who felt intuitively that the other, though, as he supposed, his underling, would yet work him a mischief if he could. 'D--n the fellow!' thought Roland. 'So this is Mr. Sharpe. I must put him to the rightabout! He ought to have ushered me in or preceded me.' He rang the bell furiously. A strange footman appeared promptly enough, but without the indignation a 'London Jeames' would have manifested at a summons so rough and impatient; for natheless his irreproachable livery and powdered hair, he had been born and bred in the East Neuk of Fife, and had no 'West-End' airs about him. 'All are strangers now hereabout,' thought Roland, who was about to enter, when the man distinctly barred his way. 'Name, sir, please?' said he. 'Is Miss Maude--Miss Lindsay, I mean--at home?' 'No, sir; out riding.' 'Your mistress, then?' said Roland sharply. 'Yes, sir--if you will give me a card.' 'Card, ha!' exclaimed Roland, losing his temper now, and with fury blazing in his dark eyes. 'Say that Captain Lindsay has arrived!' On this the valet--Tom Trotter by name--threw the door wide open, with a grin of welcome not unmingled with astonishment and alarm, and Roland found himself again under the roof of Earlshaugh. CHAPTER XI. A COLD RECEPTION.