“Oh, are we in Connecticut?” asked Miss Lane. “I didn’t know we had crossed the border. What a great old tree! Surely one of the historic trees of New England, isn’t it?” “Historic to the Wheelers,” was the grim reply, and then Mr. Appleby again relapsed into silence and spoke no further word until they reached the Wheeler home. A finely curved sweep of driveway brought them to the house, and the car stopped at the south entrance. The door did not swing open in welcome, and Mr. Appleby ordered his chauffeur to ring the bell. This brought a servant in response, and the visiting trio entered the house. It was long and low, with many rooms on either side of the wide hall that went straight through from south to north. The first room to the right was a large living-room, and into this the guests were shown and were met by a grave-looking man, who neither smiled nor offered a hand as his calm gaze rested on Samuel Appleby. Indeed, the two men stared at one another, in undisguised curiosity. Each seemed to search the other’s face for information as to his attitude and intent. “Well, Dan,” Appleby said, after the silent scrutiny, “you’ve changed some, but you’re the same good-looking chap you always were.” Wheeler gave a start and pulled himself together. “Thank you. I suppose I should return the compliment.” “But you can’t conscientiously do it, eh?” Appleby laughed. “Never mind. Personal vanity is not my besetting sin. This is my secretary, Mr. Keefe, and my assistant, Miss Lane.” “Ah, yes, yes. How are you? How do you do? My wife and daughter will look after the young lady. Maida!” As if awaiting the call, a girl came quickly in from the hall followed by an older woman. Introductions followed, and if there was an air of constraint on the part of the host the ladies of the family showed none. Sunny-faced Maida Wheeler, with her laughing brown eyes and gold brown hair, greeted the visitors with charming cordiality, and her mother was equally kind and courteous. Genevieve Lane’s wise and appraising eyes missed no point of appearance or behavior. “Perfect darlings, both of them!” she commented to herself. “Whatever ails the old guy, it hasn’t bitten them. Or else—wait a minute——” Genevieve was very observant—“perhaps they’re putting on a little. Is their welcome a bit extra, to help things along?” Yet only a most meticulous critic could discern anything more than true hospitality in the attitude of Mrs. Wheeler or Maida. The latter took Genevieve to the room prepared for her and chatted away in girlish fashion. “The place is so wonderful!” Genevieve exclaimed, carefully avoiding personal talk. “Don’t you just adore it?” “Oh, yes. I’ve loved Sycamore Ridge for nearly fifteen years.” “Have you lived here so long?” Genevieve was alert for information. It was fifteen years ago that the pardon had been granted. But as Maida merely assented and then changed the subject, Miss Lane was far too canny to ask further questions.