No incident marked their way. Lynborough rang up the parish clerk at his house, presented Stabb to that important functionary, and bespoke for him every consideration. Then he leant against the outside of the churchyard wall, peacefully smoking a cigarette. On the opposite side of the village street stood the Lynborough Arms. The inn was kept by a very superior man, who had retired to this comparative leisure after some years of service as butler with Lynborough’s father. This excellent person, perceiving Lynborough, crossed the road and invited him to partake of a glass of ale in memory of old days. Readily acquiescing, Lynborough crossed the road, sat down with the landlord on a bench by the porch, and began to discuss local affairs over the beer. “I suppose you haven’t kept up your cricket since you’ve been in foreign parts, my lord?” asked Dawson, the landlord, after some conversation which need not occupy this narrative. “We’re playing a team from Easthorpe to-morrow, and we’re very short.” “Haven’t played for nearly fifteen years, Dawson. But I tell you what--I daresay my friend Mr Wilbraham will play. Mr Stabb’s no use.” “Every one helps,” said Dawson. “We’ve got two of the gentlemen from the Grange--Mr Stillford, a good bat, and Captain Irons, who can bowl a bit--or so John Goodenough tells me.” Lynborough’s eyes had grown alert. “Well, I used to bowl a bit, too. If you’re really hard up for a man, Dawson--really at a loss, you know--I’ll play. It’ll be better than going into the field short, won’t it?” Dawson was profuse in his thanks. Lynborough listened patiently. “I tell you what I should like to do, Dawson,” he said. “I should like to stand the lunch.” It was the turn of Dawson’s eyes to grow alert. They did. Dawson supplied the lunch. The club’s finances were slender, and its ideas correspondingly modest. But if Lord Lynborough “stood” the lunch----! “And to do it really well,” added that nobleman. “A sort of little feast to celebrate my homecoming. The two teams--and perhaps a dozen places for friends--ladies, the Vicar, and so on, eh, Dawson? Do you see the idea?” Dawson saw the idea much more clearly than he saw most ideas. Almost corporeally he beheld the groaning board. “On such an occasion, Dawson, we shouldn’t quarrel about figures.” “Your lordship’s always most liberal,” Dawson acknowledged in tones which showed some trace of emotion. “Put the matter in hand at once. But look here, I don’t want it talked about. Just tell the secretary of the club--that’s enough. Keep the tent empty till the moment comes. Then display your triumph! It’ll be a pleasant little surprise for everybody, won’t it?” Dawson thought it would; at any rate it was one for him. At this instant an elderly lady of demure appearance was observed to walk up to the lych-gate and enter the churchyard. Lynborough inquired of his companion who she was. “That’s Miss Gilletson from the Grange, my lord--the Marchesa’s companion.”