Guy nodded and drew out his watch. “Not yet ten o’clock,” he muttered. He sat for a minute or two, evidently deep in thought, while Braxfield watched him with curiosity. “All right, Braxfield,” he said at last, looking up from the hearth. “Go and tell the two youngsters I’m here. Quietly mind!—impress upon them that my father is not to know anything.” “Very good, sir,” assented Braxfield. “They may be with him—or one of them may be—but I’ll manage it. There’s a trained nurse in the house, Mr. Guy, so she’ll attend to Sir Anthony while they come down.” Guy made no answer, and Braxfield went away through the silent house and upstairs to Harry Markenmore’s room. The room was lighted, but empty. Harry, said Braxfield to himself, would be with his father. He crossed the corridor and knocked gently at Valencia’s door. Valencia answered the summons at once and came out in a dressing-gown; something in the old butler’s face made her glance apprehensively at him. But Braxfield shook his head. “It’s not that, Miss Valencia,” he hastened to say. “You—you mustn’t be alarmed—the fact is, Mr. Guy’s downstairs! He came just after you and Mr. Harry had come up, and he wants to see you, both. But—Sir Anthony’s not to know.” Valencia’s face hardened. She had no recollection of any childish affection for her elder brother, and as far as she could remember she had never heard any good of him: certainly, for seven years, he had treated his family as if it had no existence. She looked doubtfully and hesitatingly at Braxfield. “What does he want?” she asked. “I can’t say, miss,” replied the old butler, “except that he says he’s come down to see you and Mr. Harry on special business and doesn’t want your father to know.” Valencia glanced from Braxfield along the gloomy corridor. Innumerable doorways, admitting to cavernous chambers, were ranged there—two or three dozen of guests could have been put up in Markenmore Court, but she knew that not one of those rooms could be prepared in less than twenty-four hours; each was damp, cold, out of use. “Where on earth are you going to put him, Braxfield?” she said. “There isn’t a bed in the place that’s fit to give him.” “He’s not stopping, Miss Valencia,” answered Braxfield. “I—I don’t quite understand his movements, but he’s going, I believe, as soon as he’s seen you and Mr. Harry. He spoke of a very early morning train from Mitbourne.” Valencia hesitated a moment: then she moved off in the direction of her father’s sick-room. “Tell him we’ll both come down in a few minutes,” she whispered to Braxfield. “Where is he—in the morning-room?” “No, miss—in the butler’s pantry,” answered Braxfield. Valencia nodded and turned away, and Braxfield went back to the visitor. “Coming in a minute or two, sir,” he answered. “Both!” “I suppose they’ve changed,” remarked Guy unconcernedly. “Oh, a good deal, sir,” said Braxfield. “Seven years, sir, is a long time—at their ages.”