"Fight for England?" he exclaimed bitterly. "I would sooner cut off my right hand!" His words left them at first speechless. He, too, after his little outburst seemed shaken, lacking in his usual _sangfroid_. It was Katharine who first recovered herself. "But you are English?" she protested wonderingly. "Am I?" he replied. "Will you forgive me if I beg you to change the subject?" The subject was effectually changed for them by the advent of some of Richard Beverley's brothers in arms. It was some time before they passed on. Then a little note almost of tragedy concluded the feast. A tall and elderly man, gaunt, with sunken cheeks, silver-white hair, complexion curiously waxen, and big, dark eyes, left the table where he had been sitting with a few Americans and came over towards them. His advance was measured, almost abnormally slow. His manner would have been melodramatic but for its intense earnestness. He stood at their table for a few seconds before speaking, his eyes fixed upon Jocelyn Thew's in a curious, almost unnatural stare. "You will forgive me," he said. "I must be speaking to Sir Denis Cathley?" Neither of the two young people, who were filled with wonder at the strange appearance of the newcomer, noticed Jocelyn Thew's sudden grip of the tablecloth, the tightening of his frame, the ominous contraction of his eyebrows as for a moment he sat there speechless. Then he was himself again. He shook his head courteously. "I am afraid," he replied, "that you must be making some mistake. My name is Jocelyn Thew." "And mine," the stranger announced, "is Michael Dilwyn. Is that name known to you?" "Perfectly well," Jocelyn Thew acknowledged. "I was present at the production of your last play in New York. I have since read with much regret," he went on courteously, "of the losses you have sustained." The old man's wonderful eyes flashed for a moment. "They are losses I am proud to endure, sir," he said. "But I did not come to speak of myself. I came to speak to Sir Denis Cathley." Jocelyn Thew shook his head. "It is a likeness which deceives you," he declared. "A likeness!" the other repeated. "Nine weeks ago I stood in a ruined mansion--so dilapidated, in fact, that one corner of it is open to the skies. I listened to the roar of the Atlantic as I heard it in the same place fifty years ago. A herdsman and his wife, perhaps a girl or two, live somewhere in the back quarters. The only apartment in any sort of preservation is the one sometimes called the picture gallery and sometimes the banqueting hall. You should visit this ruined mansion, sir. You should visit it before you give me the lie when I call you Sir Denis Cathley." Jocelyn Thew's hand for a moment shielded part of his face, as though he found the electric light a little strong. From behind the shelter of his palm his eyes met the eyes of his visitor. The latter suddenly turned and bowed to Katharine.