He could always send for Stabb, so faithful was that learned student’s affection for him. A few years Ambrose Caverly’s senior, Stabb had emerged late and painfully from a humble origin and a local grammar school, had gone up to Oxford as a non-collegiate man, had gained a first-class and a fellowship, and had settled down to a life of research. Early in his career he became known by the sobriquet of “Cromlech Stabb”--even his unlearned friends would call him “Cromlech” oftener than by any other name. His elaborate monograph on cromlechs had earned him the title; subsequently he extended his researches to other relics of ancient religions--or ancient forms of religion, as he always preferred to put it; “there being,” he would add, with the simplicity of erudition beaming through his spectacles on any auditor, orthodox or other, “of course, only one religion.” He was a very large stout man; his spectacles were large too. He was very strong, but by no means mobile. Ambrose’s father regarded Stabb’s companionship as a certain safeguard to his heir. The validity of this idea is doubtful. Students have so much curiosity--and so many diverse scenes and various types of humanity can minister to that appetite of the mind. Occasional rumours about Ambrose Caverly reached his native shores; he was heard of in Morocco, located in Spain, familiar in North and in South America. Once he was not heard of for a year; his father and friends concluded that he must be dead--or in prison. Happily the latter explanation proved correct. Once more he and the law had come to loggerheads; when he emerged from confinement he swore never to employ on his own account an instrument so hateful. “A gentleman should fight his own battles, Cromlech,” he cried to his friend. “I did no more than put a bullet in his arm--in a fair encounter--and he let me go to prison!” “Monstrous!” Stabb agreed with a smile. He had passed the year in a dirty little inn by the prison gate--among scoundrels, but fortunately in the vicinity of some mounds distinctly prehistoric. Old Lord Lynborough’s death occurred suddenly and unexpectedly, at a moment when Ambrose and his companion could not be found. They were somewhere in Peru--Stabb among the Incas, Ambrose probably in less ancient company. It was six months before the news reached them. “I must go home and take up my responsibilities, Cromlech,” said the new Lord Lynborough. “You really think you’d better?” queried Stabb doubtfully. “It was my father’s wish.” “Oh, well----! But you’ll be thought odd over there, Ambrose.” “Odd? I odd? What the deuce is there odd about me, Cromlech?” “Everything.” The investigator stuck his cheroot back in his mouth. Lynborough considered dispassionately--as he fain would hope. “I don’t see it.”