“I can’t help succeeding to the baronetcy, Braxfield, though I don’t care twopence about it,” answered Guy; “and as for the estates, they can be managed well enough without my help or presence. As a matter of fact, I don’t want ’em! I’m a well-to-do man—I’ve been on the Stock Exchange, Braxfield, for over six years, and made a pot of money. But now look here,” he continued, interrupting the old butler’s congratulations, “you say that Harry is acting as a sort of steward; does he do well?” “Very well indeed, sir, as far as I can judge,” replied Braxfield. “Charlesworth—our old steward—you remember him, well enough, Mr. Guy—he let things get into a bad way, and your father didn’t check him. But when your brother became of age, he and your father made some arrangement, and Mr. Harry took hold of things, and he pensioned Charlesworth off, and since that he’s seen to everything. Helped a good deal, of course, sir, by Miss Valencia—a very clever young lady your sister’s turned out, Mr. Guy. You’ll—you’ll let me fetch them down, sir, before you go to bed?” Guy finished the contents of his glass, mixed himself another drink, and sitting down in a big chair by the blazing logs, shook his head. “I’m not going to bed, Braxfield,” he answered. “I came down from town on special business, and I’m going to return to town by a very early morning train, which I shall catch at Mitbourne station. But I shall see the two youngsters—in fact, my business is with them. First of all, though, I want you to tell me one or two things: then you can go and tell them I’m here—quietly, and not disturbing Sir Anthony—I don’t want him to know I’m anywhere about. Now, first—you say Mrs. Tretheroe has a house-party at the Dower House?” “Yes, sir,” replied Braxfield. “A biggish one.” “Then they’re not likely to keep very early hours there just now,” observed Guy. “I hear that they keep very late ones, sir,” said Braxfield. “Dancing—and so on.” “Very well,” continued Guy. “Now then—does Mrs. Wrenne still keep the Sceptre Inn, in the village?” Braxfield’s plump countenance changed colour—he blushed, like any young girl. “Well, sir,” he faltered, with a shy laugh. “She doesn’t. The fact is, sir—you’ll laugh at me, Mr. Guy—Mrs. Wrenne and me, sir, we got married, four years ago, sir. So Mrs. Wrenne is now Mrs. Braxfield.” “Bless me!” exclaimed Guy. “Caught you at last, eh, Braxfield? Then I suppose Mrs. Braxfield is—here?” “No, sir, and never has been,” replied the old butler. “I live here, as usual. But my wife, sir, and her daughter—you remember Poppy, Mr. Guy? a pretty girl that’s now a handsome young woman—they live at Woodland Cottage, across our park. My wife took it, sir, when she left the Sceptre.” “Oh!” said Guy. “Then—who has the Sceptre, now?” “Man named Grimsdale, sir—he was groom to Sir James Marchant, formerly. He’s improved it a good bit, sir; since all this motoring began, there’s a lot of traffic along our main road.”