"Not yet, ma'am; but I mean to know more." "Watch then," she cried; "watch those two men. There is danger for Mr. Dale in any association with his cousin, Sir Reginald Eversleigh. Do not forget that. There is peril for him--the deadliest it may be. Watch them, Mr. Larkspur; watch them by day and night." "I'll do my duty, ma'am, depend upon it," replied the police officer; "and I'll do it well. I take a pride in my profession, and to me duty is a pleasure." "I will trust you." "You may, ma'am. Oh, by-the-bye, I must tell you that in this house my name is Andrews. Please remember that, ma'am." "Mr. Andrews, lawyer's clerk. The name of Larkspur smells too strong of Bow Street." * * * * * The information acquired by Andrew Larkspur was perfectly correct. An intimacy and companionship had arisen between Douglas Dale and his cousin, Reginald Eversleigh, and the two men spent much of their time together. Douglas Dale was still the same simple-minded, true-hearted young man that he had been before his uncle Oswald's death endowed him with an income of five thousand a year; but with the accession of wealth the necessity for industry ceased; and instead of a hard-working student, Douglas became one of the upper million, who have nothing to think of but the humour of the moment--now Alpine tourist, now Norwegian angler; anon idler in clubs and drawing-rooms; anon book collector, or amateur litterateur. He still occupied chambers in the Temple; he still called himself a barrister; but he had no longer any desire to succeed at the bar. His brother Lionel had become rector of Hallgrove, a village in Dorsetshire, where there was a very fine old church and a very small congregation. It was one of those fat livings which seem only to fall to the lot of rich men. Lionel had the tastes of a typical country gentleman, and he found ample leisure to indulge in his favourite amusement of hunting, after having conscientiously discharged his duties. The poor of Hallgrove had good reason to congratulate themselves on the fact that their rector was a rich man. Mr. Dale's charities seemed almost boundless to his happy parishioners. The rectory was a fine old house, situated in one of those romantic spots which one scarcely hopes to see out of a picture. Hill, wood, and water combined to make the beauty of the landscape; and amid verdant woods and fields the old red-brick mansion looked the perfection of an English homestead. It had been originally a manor-house, and some portions of it were very old. Douglas Dale called Hallgrove the Happy Valley. Neither of the brothers had yet married, and the barrister paid frequent visits to the rector. He was glad to find repose after the fatigue and excitement of London life. Like his brother, he delighted in the adventures and perils of the hunting field, and he was rarely absent from Hallgrove during the hunting season.