Theodore took the Colt’s revolver from his pocket and fitted it into the place beside the other pistol. It fitted exactly, and the two pistols were alike in all respects—alike as to size and fashion, alike as to the little silver plate upon the butt, and the initials, “T. D.” Thomas Darcy! Darcy was the name of Evelyn Strangway’s husband, and one of those pistols which had belonged at some period to Evelyn Strangway’s husband had been found in the well in the fruit garden, and the other in possession of Lord Cheriton’s _protégée_ and pensioner, the humble dependant at his gates, Mrs. Porter. Theodore changed his mind as to his plan of procedure. He did not send Mrs. Porter’s letter to Lord Cheriton by the groom as he had intended, after he himself had been driven to Wareham. His journey to London might be deferred now; indeed, in his present condition of mind, he was not the man to interview the authorities of Scotland Yard. He left Mrs. Porter’s letter in its place beside the pistol-case, and wrote a hasty line to his kinsman at Mrs. Porter’s writing-table, where all the materials for correspondence were arranged ready to his hand. “The West Lodge, 8.15. Pray come to me here at once, if you can. I have made a terrible discovery. There is a letter for you. Mrs. Porter has gone to London.” He put these lines into an envelope, sealed it, and then took it out to the groom, who was waiting stolidly, neatly tickling the cob’s ears now and again, with an artistic circular movement of the lash, which brought into play all the power and ease of his wrist. “Drive back to the house with that note as fast as you can,” said Theodore, “and let his lordship know that I am waiting for him here.” CHAPTER XXX. “Thy love and hate are both unwise ones, lady.” “Well, Theodore, what is your discovery?” asked Lord Cheriton half an hour later, the two men standing face to face in Mrs. Porter’s sitting-room, amidst the silence of the summer morning, a gigantic bee buzzing in the brown velvet heart of a tall sunflower, painfully audible to the younger man’s strained ears. “There is a letter, sir. You had better read that before I say anything,” answered Theodore. It was years since he had called his cousin sir, not since he had been a schoolboy, and had been encouraged to open his mind upon politics or cricket, over his single glass of claret, after dinner. On those occasions a boyish respect for greatness had prompted the ceremonious address; to-day it came to his lips involuntarily—as if a barrier of ice were suddenly interposed between himself and the man he had esteemed and admired for so many years of his life. Lord Cheriton held the letter in his hand unopened, while he stood looking at the pistol-case, where both pistols occupied their places—one bright and undamaged, the other rusted and spoilt, as to outward appearance at least. He was ghastly pale, but not much more so than he had looked yesterday after he left Mrs. Porter’s cottage.