A kindly looking old man, with white whiskers, was watering them. Brown looked sharply back at the road behind him; the man with the barrow had suddenly vanished. Then he looked again at the lawn with its incredible inscription. Another man might have thought he had gone mad, but Brown did not. When romantic ladies gushed over his V.C. and his military exploits, he sometimes felt himself to be a painfully prosaic person, but by the same token he knew he was incurably sane. Another man, again, might have thought himself a victim of a passing practical joke, but Brown could not easily believe this. He knew from his own quaint learning that the garden arrangement was an elaborate and expensive one; he thought it extravagantly improbable that any one would pour out money like water for a joke against him. Having no explanation whatever to offer, he admitted the fact to himself, like a clear-headed man, and waited as he would have done in the presence of a man with six legs. At this moment the stout old man with white whiskers looked up, and the watering can fell from his hand, shooting a swirl of water down the gravel path. “Who on earth are you?” he gasped, trembling violently. “I am Major Brown,” said that individual, who was always cool in the hour of action. The old man gaped helplessly like some monstrous fish. At last he stammered wildly, “Come down--come down here!” “At your service,” said the Major, and alighted at a bound on the grass beside him, without disarranging his silk hat. The old man turned his broad back and set off at a sort of waddling run towards the house, followed with swift steps by the Major. His guide led him through the back passages of a gloomy, but gorgeously appointed house, until they reached the door of the front room. Then the old man turned with a face of apoplectic terror dimly showing in the twilight. “For heaven's sake,” he said, “don't mention jackals.” Then he threw open the door, releasing a burst of red lamplight, and ran downstairs with a clatter. The Major stepped into a rich, glowing room, full of red copper, and peacock and purple hangings, hat in hand. He had the finest manners in the world, and, though mystified, was not in the least embarrassed to see that the only occupant was a lady, sitting by the window, looking out. “Madam,” he said, bowing simply, “I am Major Brown.” “Sit down,” said the lady; but she did not turn her head. She was a graceful, green-clad figure, with fiery red hair and a flavour of Bedford Park. “You have come, I suppose,” she said mournfully, “to tax me about the hateful title-deeds.” “I have come, madam,” he said, “to know what is the matter. To know why my name is written across your garden. Not amicably either.”