"He won't see any strangers without he knows their business first," interrupted the old man brusquely, as he turned the card to the light that was streaming through the open doorway into the dim corridor in which he stood, and read the name printed on it. "Never heard of you before," he added. "Maybe you are a spy--a mean, dastardly spy," he continued, after a pause, still eyeing the young man suspiciously from under his thick white eyebrows. "A spy! No, I am not a spy. Have you any spies in these parts?" "Lots of them." "And what do they come to spy out?" "That's none of your business, sir, so long as you're not one--though that has to be proved," answered the crusty old man, as he went away with the card, leaving Conroy outside. He turned, and began to pace the gravelled pathway in front of the door. "Is my sweet princess here, I wonder, and shall I succeed in seeing her?" he said to himself. "Very like a wild-goose chase, this errand of mine. To see her once in London for a couple of hours--to fall in love with her then and there--to come racing down to this out-of-the-world spot, weeks afterwards, on the bare possibility of seeing her again--when she probably remembers no more of me than she does of any other indifferent stranger--what can that be but the act of a----" Light footsteps were coming swiftly down the stone corridor. Conroy's face flushed, and a strange eager light leapt into his eyes. There was a rustle of garments, then the heavy chain dropped, the door swung wide on its hinges, and Ella Winter stood revealed to Conroy's happy gaze. His card was in her hand. She glanced from it to his face, and, a momentary blush mounting to her cheek, she advanced a step or two, and held out her hand. "Mr. Conroy," she said, "I have not forgotten your sketches. Or you either," she added, as if by an after-thought, a smile playing round her lips by this time, coming and going like spring sunshine. She led the way in, and he followed. The long, flagged corridor, with its dim light, struck him with a chill, after coming out of the bright air. Ella entered a small, oak-panelled room, plainly and heavily furnished, and invited Mr. Conroy to sit down. "We live mostly at the back of the house," she observed. "My uncle prefers the rooms to those in front." "It is a grand old house," answered Conroy. "And what might it not be made!" he added to himself. "You received your portfolio of sketches back safely, Mr. Conroy, I hope. My aunt left them at your address that day when we went out for our drive." "Did you indeed leave them? Were you so good?" "Sketches such as those are too valuable to be trusted to the chance of loss," said Ella. "I was so very sorry not to call again on Mrs. Carlyon, as I had promised," he continued, "but the next day but one I had to leave town. I wonder what she thought of me?"