First I went to the telephone, rang up the _Stag's Head Hotel_ in Oakham, the nearest town--it was eight miles off--and asked the proprietor, whom I knew personally, to send me out a car as quickly as possible, also to reserve a room for me for the night. Then I went into the morning-room, tucked the big panel photograph, in its frame, under my arm, took it up to my room, and deposited it in the bottom of my valise. As I finished packing my clothes and other belongings I heard the car hooting as it came quickly up the long beech avenue leading from the lodge-gates. My valise was not heavy, and I am pretty strong. Also I am not proud. I lifted it on to my bed, crouched down, hoisted the valise on to my back, as the railway porters do, carried it downstairs, and let the driver have it. He was a man I knew, and I noticed that he was grinning. "Taking physical exercise, sir?" he asked lightly. "Yes," I answered, "it's better sport than foxhunting." He laughed outright, then helped me into my overcoat. A minute later we were on the road to Oakham. And all the while the sad face of the girl for whom I had that evening declared my love--as I had last seen it, with her eyes set on mine as though in mute appeal--kept rising before me like a vision. CHAPTER TWO. CONTAINS CERTAIN REVELATIONS. Until lunch-time next day I remained in Oakham, not knowing what to do, uncertain what steps to take. I am a bachelor with a comfortable income, and, I am ashamed to say, an idler. Work never did really appeal to me. I try to compensate for not working by paying my taxes regularly and being as charitable as I can to people I come across and like, and whom the world seems to treat unjustly. My father, Richard Ashton, was Colonel in the Blues. I was his only child, for my mother died in bringing me into the world to live at ease and waste my time. When my father died I found myself heir to a small property in Rutland, which I promptly let, and One Hundred and Eighty Thousand pounds safely invested--mostly in Consols. Sport in general, especially hunting and shooting, also reading, constitute my favourite forms of recreation. Generally I live in London, where I have a flat in King Street, St. James's. I don't remember what made me do it, but while lunching at the _Stag's Head_ I decided that I would take the car out to Houghton Park again. I think I was curious to see if any fresh development had taken place there. Nobody answered my repeated rings at the front door, so I went round to the back. The door was locked. I rang, and rang again, and knocked. But nobody came. I walked right round the house. Every window was shut, and apparently fastened. The whole place was as still as death. Then I went to the stables. I could hear the occasional rattle of a headstall chain, but the horses were all locked in.