Sir John Gyde’s spirits, wine and tobacco, never paid duty, the smugglers of Ravenglass knew why. He was the friend and protector of all lawless scoundrels who put money in his pocket, and he hanged and imprisoned all backsliders who didn’t. He had seduced other men’s wives, betrayed other men’s daughters, he had killed three men in duel with his red right hand, and he was a justice of the peace. Throstle Hall was the name of the house he had built for himself, and Throstle Hall it remains to this day, a formidable old pile, standing close up to the Fells of Blencarn like an ancient malefactor, miraculously preserved for our inspection; walls twenty-feet thick, a courtyard full of echoes, dungeon-like cellars, interminable passages, intricate, like the convolutions of a thief’s brain; little secret rooms, a picture gallery, where the dead and gone Gydes stand still, despite the rigor of death, confessing their sins by the expressions on their faces; their loves, their hates, and, the fact, despite the beauty peeping here and there from the gloom of a dusty canvas, that the Gydes were a sinister race. A scarlet thread ran through the history of the family; there was something appalling in the rapidity that marked the history of their succession. Death had had a lot of dealings with the Gydes, and the Gydes had dealt largely with death. Sir Lionel Gyde had killed Sir Thomas Fiennes in a duel, and had been killed in turn by Sir Thomas’s son. He stands, still, in effigy, does Sir Lionel, dressed in faded violet velvet and Mechlin lace, staring from the canvas straight before him, at the poplar trees waving in the wind before the gallery windows. He has every point that goes to the making of a handsome and debonair cavalier, but he has the pale blue eyes of a murderer. Near him there is a canvas blackened out. It has a history not to be repeated. Beyond, another canvas exhibits a portly old gentleman. “Fox hunter” is written upon his face across “Port wine,” and that was his history. They were not all bad, the Gydes; the scarlet thread only appeared in the family texture here and there, but when it did appear it was vivid. The fortunes of the family had been varied; the estates had been confiscated once and given back, it had cast spores as far as London, where Aldermanic Gydes had bloomed with great splendour. In the Overend and Gurney business the family had, as nearly as possible, come to ruin; it was saved only by the genius of finance displayed by the present Sir Anthony Gyde’s father. When Sir Anthony, the man we have to deal with in this extraordinary story, came to his own, he found himself the possessor of half a million of money—a poor enough heritage in these days—Throstle Hall in Cumberland, a house in Piccadilly, and the reputation of being a fool. He had gained the reputation at Christ Church.