A quarter of an hour later the stranger sallied forth, with closely-buttoned overcoat, buckskin gloves and silver-mounted cane. After an inquiry or two, he found himself on the road which, among other places, led to Broome. A walk of two miles and three-quarters brought him to the Park gates, thick with the rust and grime of many years, and hanging askew on their hinges. A heavy chain with a padlock attached held them against all intruders. There was, however, a narrow arched entrance in the wall hard by through which wayfarers could gain access to the park, but the original door had rotted away long ago, and its place was now filled by a rude make-shift of rough unpainted planking, the handiwork of Barney Dale. A little way within the gates stood the whilom lodge, windowless and partially roofless, its flooring and other fittings having been torn away piecemeal by tramps and vagabonds of various kinds, who had a kettle to boil, or a savory stew which would be all the better for simmering over a fire of wood ashes. Nettles and dockweed were now the sole lodge-keepers at Broome. The stranger, as he walked through the park towards the house, did not fail to note the further signs of neglect which were everywhere visible. The carriage drive was so overgrown with grass and weeds as to be barely distinguishable; such few trees as Sir Jasper had left standing had been left unpruned and uncared for since his death; here and there a few cows were cropping the ragged grass. When a turn of the drive brought into view the front of the Hall, the stranger paused for a few moments to contemplate it. On that grey, sunless winter noon, with its rows of shuttered windows, it looked as if it might have held inside it not one dead person, but a dozen--not one grim secret only, but a score. Miss Pengarvon, sitting at work in the Green Parlor, was suddenly startled by a loud knocking at the front entrance of the Hall. Never did that sound fall on her ears without recalling with startling vividness that December night, now twenty years ago, when she who knocked was repulsed with contumely, and left to find a winding-sheet in the darkness and the snow. A few moments later, Lucy Grice, after a preliminary tap at the door, entered the Parlor, carrying the stranger's card gingerly between her thumb and forefinger. It was the first time she had ever seen such an article, and she was at a loss to know the use or meaning of it. "A gentleman at the front door, ma'am, asked me to give you this," said Lucy. "He says he wants to see you very perticlar." Miss Pengarvon took the card and peered at it through her spectacles. "The name is altogether strange to me," she muttered. "What possible business can have brought him here?" Then to the girl, after a moment's cogitation, "You may show the gentleman in."