The old gentleman, in his quaint costume, was in his sitting-room, taking his breakfast alone. Mrs. Edwards took her meals anywhere, and at any time, during her lord's illness. Hearing strange footsteps in the corridor, he rose to see whose they were, and looked considerably astonished. "Does your ladyship want me?" he asked, bowing. "I--yes, I think I do," answered Lady Level. "Who keeps the key of that door, Mr. Drewitt?" pointing to the strong oaken door at the end of the passage. "I keep it, my lady." "Then will you be kind enough to unlock it for me? These gentlemen wish to examine the East Wing." "The East Wing is private to his lordship," was the steward's reply, addressing them all conjointly. "Without his authority I cannot open it to anyone." They stood contending a little while: it was like a repetition of the scene that had been enacted there once before; and, like that, was terminated by the same individual--the surgeon. "It is all right, Mr. Drewitt." he said; "you can open the door of the East Wing; I bear you my lord's orders. I am going in there to see a patient," he added to the rest. The steward produced a key from his pocket, and put it into the lock. It was surprising that so small a key should open so massive a door. They passed, wonderingly, through three rooms _en suite_: a sitting-room, a bedroom, and a bath-room. All these rooms looked to the back of the house. Other rooms there were on the same floor, which the visitors did not touch upon. Descending the staircase, they entered three similar rooms below. In the smaller one lay some garden-tools, but of a less size than a grown man in his strength would use, and by their side were certain toys: tops, hoops, ninepins, and the like. The middle room was a sitting-room; the larger room beyond had no furniture, and in that, standing over a humming-top, which he had just set to spin on the floor, bent the singular figure of a youth. He had a dark, vacant face, wild black eyes, and a mass of thick black hair, cut short. This figure, a child's whip in his hand, was whipping the top, and making a noise with his mouth in imitation of its hum. Half madman, half idiot, he stood out, in all his deep misfortune, raising himself up and staring about him with a vacant stare. The expression of Mr. Ravensworth's face changed to one of pity. "Who are you?" he exclaimed in kindly tones. "What is your name?" "Arnie!" was the mechanical answer, for brains and sense seemed to have little to do with it; and, catching up his top, he backed against the wall, and burst into a distressing laugh. Distressing to a listener; not distressing to him, poor fellow. "Who is he?" asked Mr. Ravensworth of the doctor. "An imbecile." "So I see. But what connection has he with Lord Level's family?" "He is a connection, or he would not be here." "Can he be--be--a son of Lord Level's?"