A newspaper lay at my plate; it was the morning’s issue of a Chicago daily. I was, then, not wholly out of the world, I reflected, scanning the head-lines. “Your grandfather rarely examined the paper. Mr. Glenarm was more particularly interested in the old times. He wasn’t what you might call up to date,—if you will pardon the expression, sir.” “You are quite right about that, Bates. He was a medievalist in his sympathies.” “Thank you for that word, sir; I’ve frequently heard him apply it to himself. The plain omelette was a great favorite with your grandfather. I hope it is to your liking, sir.” “It’s excellent, Bates. And your coffee is beyond praise.” “Thank you, Mr. Glenarm. One does what one can, sir.” He had placed me so that I faced the windows, an attention to my comfort and safety which I appreciated. The broken pane told the tale of the shot that had so narrowly missed me the night before. “I’ll repair that to-day, sir,” Bates remarked, seeing my eyes upon the window. “You know that I’m to spend a year on this place; I assume that you understand the circumstances,” I said, feeling it wise that we should understand each other. “Quite so, Mr. Glenarm.” “I’m a student, you know, and all I want is to be left alone.” This I threw in to reassure myself rather than for his information. It was just as well, I reflected, to assert a little authority, even though the fellow undoubtedly represented Pickering and received orders from him. “In a day or two, or as soon as I have got used to the place, I shall settle down to work in the library. You may give me breakfast at seven-thirty; luncheon at one-thirty and dinner at seven.” “Those were my late master’s hours, sir.” “Very good. And I’ll eat anything you please, except mutton broth, meat pie and canned strawberries. Strawberries in tins, Bates, are not well calculated to lift the spirit of man.” “I quite agree with you, sir, if you will pardon my opinion.” “And the bills—” “They are provided for by Mr. Pickering. He sends me an allowance for the household expenses.” “So you are to report to him, are you, as heretofore?” I blew out a match with which I had lighted a cigar and watched the smoking end intently. “I believe that’s the idea, sir.” It is not pleasant to be under compulsion,—to feel your freedom curtailed, to be conscious of espionage. I rose without a word and went into the hall. “You may like to have the keys,” said Bates, following me. “There’s two for the gates in the outer wall and one for the St. Agatha’s gate; they’re marked, as you see. And here’s the hall-door key and the boat-house key that you asked for last night.” After an hour spent in unpacking I went out into the grounds. I had thought it well to wire Pickering of my arrival, and I set out for Annandale to send him a telegram. My spirit lightened under the influences of the crisp air and cheering sunshine. What had seemed strange and shadowy at night was clear enough by day.