“Well--that’s just it. I don’t know. But _you’ll_ know, of course. That’s why I say it seems a bit low-down writing me behind your back, so to speak. Still, perhaps he thought it the right thing to do. You see, it’s almost personal.” “Personal?” Lanty smiled. “You needn’t be worrying about my private character, if that’s the trouble.” “Good Lord, no!” Bluecaster almost blushed. “Afraid I’m getting mixed and making an ass of myself. But I think you’ll take this rather worse than libel, if I’m not mistaken. Your father did so much for the place. It’s seems such ghastly cheek, calling any of his work in question.” “Who’s the man, my lord? New, I suppose?” “Yes, of course. At least, a new freak of an old breed. The others would string themselves up before they’d throw mud at a Lancaster. It’s Bracken Holliday over at Thweng--little tin god in a Trilby and a Studebaker-Flanders. Claimed me as a sort of long-lost brother at Cunswick Races, and seemed to think I was by way of being blessed of the gods in having him on the estate. What made you let him Thweng?” “He’s old Holliday’s nephew--Willie of Pippin Hall. Willie kept him as an orphaned lad until he cleared out to Canada, and made money there, somehow. He wrote to me from abroad about the farm, and I thought he ought to have his chance. He’s not framing over well, but I’m still hoping the old blood will tell when he’s settled down, and that he’ll find his level after a bit.” “Not until he’s under the turf, I should say! Well, it seems he’s got a down on the Lugg.” Lancaster opened his eyes. The surface of his mind scoffed, but in that instant the waiting trouble sprang into existence. In every terrible memory there is always one moment more poignantly lasting than the rest. It is generally the moment when fear first springs. All his life he remembered the tone in which Bluecaster said--“The Lugg”--the plain, leather-upholstered room and its harassed master. Yet he scoffed. He answered with a smile. “What’s he got against it? Not æsthetic enough for him? Or has he some new patent facing that he wants to palm off on us?” “Nothing so mild.” Bluecaster lumbered through all his pockets after a letter lying directly in front of him. “It s the old story, of course. He says--where’s the thing got to, anyhow?--that it isn’t safe.” He pushed the envelope across, avoiding the agent’s eyes. “He makes out some sort of a case--but you’ll see for yourself.” It was not an attractive letter, since courtesy had been left in the lurch by an assurance very different from the dignified independence of the men of the old type. The writer had a good conceit of himself--you could almost have deduced the Trilby and the motor from the over-tall capitals--but in spite of the insolent tone it carried a certain conviction that could not be denied respect. He believed what he said when he called the Lugg a public danger.