"Lord Brompton has not yet come home?" asked Mrs. Carey, for it was she, though she knew he had not. "No, ma'am; he hasn't yet come out on the cliff walk. I can see him with this glass--as I saw you," he added, explaining his presence. Mrs. Carey gave a grim little smile in the dark. "You would like to see the lodge, perhaps, ma'am, inside as well as out?" "Yes; I should like it very much; but I ought not to venture now. Lord Brompton might return, and I should not wish him to know I had been here for the world. I am overjoyed to know that he has at least one friend who is faithful to him," and she held out her white hand to the old man. She said this so graciously that old Reynolds was carried off his feet. This fine patronage sent him back to his young manhood, when he was whipper-in to the old Earl's foxhounds, and heard such voices and saw such upright ladies in the hunting-field. "Come in, my lady," he said, glancing at the cliff path; "he cannot reach here under half an hour. You can see all there is to be seen of the poor place in a few minutes." The old man led, and she followed toward the lodge. "Have a care of the steps, my lady; they are the worse for wear." He entered before her, and threw open the door of the main room. The place was made cheery and comfortable by a blazing wood-fire on the great iron dogs, and a round copper kettle singing and steaming on one side of the hearth. The lady entered and stood by the table, glancing keenly at every feature. In brief space she had taken an inventory of the room. Old Reynolds passed her and opened a side door which let in a flood of cool air from the field where she had been a few minutes before. The old man stood at the door a moment, watching the cliff path for his master. "We do not use this door," he said, "for the boards out there are too old to be safe." Mrs. Carey went to the door, the upper part of which had once contained squares of glass, but was now vacant, and saw that it opened on a short hall-way about four feet deep, with an outer door, also half of glass, which was closed. Through this door-window the old man had looked toward the cliff. Outside was an old piazza, deeply shadowed by overhanging trees. When Mrs. Carey returned to the table, her eye rested on a photograph on the top of a heap of old letters. She reached her hand for it; but hesitated, glancing at the servant. "May I look at this?" she asked, with a sweet smile; "I know almost all Lord Brompton's friends;" and she took up the photograph. One glance was enough; it was a woman's face, but only some passing woman, whom no one could remember for a month. With a slight smile, she laid it down. There was nothing more to be gathered, except by closer investigation of the tempting irregularity. She beamed on the old man as she turned to go. "You will meet his lordship on your way to the house," he said. "He will come by the cliff path."