It was the custom of the aunt and nephew to drink their coffee in the hall, before going to the little drawing-room in which they passed the evenings when alone. Aunt Bee sipped her coffee and looked at the papers, while Denzil smoked one cigarette--at times two--and also looked at the papers. In this way, if anybody happened to come to the door during this quarter of an hour, they were in full view. But, as a rule, nobody ever came to the front door between half-past eight and nine. To-night was an exception. The bell rang. Chant, the correct manservant, came with an expression of martyrdom from the servants' hall, where he had just sat down to supper. He was heard talking, somewhat eagerly they thought, to somebody in the porch; and after a pause, in which the master of the house stood with his coffee-cup raised and his attitude that of suspense, he came back with a disturbed countenance and nervous manner. "It's Mr. Gregory, sir, to see you." "Gregory!" This was the village constable. "Yes, sir, it's important, please, sir, I understood him to say." Denzil turned swiftly to Miss Rawson. "Something about your mysterious Lady of the Barge," he said, with a smile. "Tell Gregory to step inside, please, Chant." The constable entered, buttoned up tight in his uniform, which had apparently been constructed when he was less stout. He made his bow, and glanced diffidently at Miss Rawson. "Well, Gregory, is your business with me very private?" Gregory grew red. His message distressed him, for the Vanstons were respected in the village. "It's about Mr. Felix, sir." Denzil's heart turned over. He might have guessed. This was not the first time the shadow of police-courts had overspread the home of his ancestors. The bitterness of what he had been through--the memory of his first hearing the news of his brother's arrest--his hurried journey to London to retain counsel for the defense--the fiery and insolent demeanor of the foolish young culprit--the horror of those days in the close, stifling air of the Law Courts--and the final humiliation of hearing Felix Vanston sentenced. All broke at once upon the memory of the young man with a stroke like that of a whip falling on bare flesh. He grasped the high mantel, felt a sickness creep over him, sank into a chair, and looked stonily at his aunt. "About Felix!" he said, hoarsely. Aunt Bee laid aside her paper and turned to face poor Gregory, who stood miserably toying with some folded papers. "Dear, dear, Gregory," she said, nervously, "have you bad news for us?"