It is not difficult to imagine with what absorbed interest Everard Lisle listened to the narrative of Alec Clare. There still remained one point, and others would doubtless crop up later on, as to which his curiosity was unsatisfied. “Now that you have told me so much, Mr. Clare,” he said presently, “perhaps you won’t mind enlightening me as to the means by which you were enabled to make your way into and out of the Chase, as it seemed, whenever you chose to do so, without anyone being a bit the wiser.” Alec laughed. “The explanation is a very simple one, or so it will seem when you hear it,” he said. “The room which used to be my mother’s boudoir, and which has latterly, I believe, been assigned to Lady Pell, has two windows, both of which were originally of the long, narrow, old-fashioned kind, but one of which, at my mother’s desire, was modernised into what is called a French window, so that she might have a means of ready access to the garden—for she was somewhat of an invalid—without having to go round by the corridor and the side door. The other window was left untouched and, to all appearance, was not intended to open in any way. But one day, when a lad of ten, I lighted, quite by accident, on a secret spring which, when pressed in a particular way, caused the window to turn bodily on a swivel. Through the aperture thus formed any ordinary sized person could squeeze himself without much difficulty. I kept my discovery to myself, finding it useful on several occasions, when I was a rackety young fellow home for my holidays. To what use I put it of late you will have guessed already.” Next morning Alec Clare set out on his journey back to Withington Chase. As a rule he was much averse to Sunday travelling, but the present occasion was an altogether exceptional one. He already felt like another man. The ban which had been laid on him more than a score years before had at length been taken off. His father had written, “Come back to me—I want you.” The long breach was about to be healed. All was to be forgiven and forgotten. Not as a lonely childless old man would his father henceforth drag out his days. And when he thought of what he himself was going back to, his heart felt full to the point of overflowing with deep thankfulness and that sort of chastened elation which, in the case of those who have seen much tribulation and are imbued with a sense of the unstableness of things mundane, often is all they dare permit themselves to feel. Everard in the course of the previous afternoon had despatched a telegram to Sir Gilbert, informing him that he had overtaken “Mr. Alexander” before the latter had sailed, and that he, the aforesaid Mr. A., might be looked for at the Chase in the course of the afternoon of the morrow.