On the afternoon before the funeral, Mr. Bowden, who had motored over to make some final arrangements, concluded his business, drank a cup of tea in the drawing-room, and was escorted by Everard and Lilias through the hall. "The passing of the Squire is a sad loss to the neighborhood," he remarked. "He was a true type of the good old school of country gentlemen, and most of us feel 'we shall not look upon his like again.'" "No," replied Everard. "It will be very hard to succeed him, I know, but I shall try to do my best." Mr. Bowden started, looked at him musingly for a moment, knitted his brows, then apparently came to a decision. Instead of taking his hat and coat from Winder, he waved the two young people into the study, followed them, and shut the door. "I want a word with you in private," he began. "I'm going to do a very unprofessional thing, but, as I've known you for years, I feel the case justifies me. I can't let you come into the dining-room to-morrow, after the funeral, and hear your grandfather's will read aloud, without giving you some warning beforehand of its contents. I hinted to you, Everard, at Christmas-time, not to count too much upon expectations." "Why, but surely I am the heir?" burst out Everard with white lips. "My poor boy, you are nothing of the sort. Your grandfather has willed the property to the child of his elder son, Tristram." At that critical moment there was a rap at the door, and Winder, the butler, entered, respectfully apologetic, to summon Mr. Bowden to the telephone. The lawyer answered the call, which was apparently a very urgent one, for, without another word to Everard and Lilias, he took hat and coat, hurried from the house, mounted his motor-cycle, and was gone. He left utter consternation behind him. The two young people, returning to the study, tried to face the disastrous news. He had indeed told them no details, but the main outline was quite sufficient. They could scarcely accustom themselves to believe it for a moment or two. "To bring me up as the heir, and then disinherit me!" gasped Everard. "Why, everybody called you 'the young squire'!" exclaimed Lilias. "It's unthinkable!" "Unthinkable or not, I'm afraid it's true," said Everard bitterly. "Bowden wouldn't have told me otherwise. I suppose he drew up the will, so he knows what's in it. Nice position to be in, isn't it? Turned out to make room for some other chap!" "Who is this child of Uncle Tristram's? We've never heard of him." "It'll be the kid who is in that photo, I suppose--Leslie. He looked about a year old in the portrait, and it's thirteen years since Uncle Tristram died, so he's probably fourteen or so now. To think of a kid of fourteen taking _my_ place here! It's monstrous!" "Oh, Everard, what _shall_ we do?" "I don't know. I'm going out to think it over. Don't say a word about it to anybody yet. Promise me you won't!"