The old man shrank, then said coldly: “Have you the marriage-certificate?” Gaston drew some papers from his pockets. “Here, sir, with a letter from my father, and one from the Hudson’s Bay Company.” His grandfather took them. With an effort he steadied himself, then opened and read them one by one, his son’s brief letter last--it was merely a calm farewell, with a request that justice should be done his son. At that moment Falby entered and said: “Her ladyship’s compliments, and all the guests have arrived, sir.” “My compliments to her ladyship, and ask her to give me five minutes yet, Falby.” Turning to his grandson, there seemed to be a moment’s hesitation, then he reached out his hand. “You have brought your luggage? Will you care to dine with us?” Gaston took the cold outstretched fingers. “Only my saddle-bag, and I have no evening-dress with me, else I should be glad.” There was another glance up and down the athletic figure, a half-apprehensive smile as the baronet thought of his wife, and then he said: “We must see if anything can be done.” He pulled a bell-cord. A servant appeared. “Ask the housekeeper to come for a moment, please.” Neither spoke till the housekeeper appeared. “Hovey,” he said to the grim woman, “give Mr. Gaston the room in the north tower. Then, from the press in the same room lay out the evening-dress which you will find there.... They were your father’s,” he added, turning to the young man. “It was my wife’s wish to keep them. Have they been aired lately, Hovey?” “Some days ago, sir.” “That will do.” The housekeeper left, agitated. “You will probably be in time for the fish,” he added, as he bowed to Robert. “If the clothes do not fit, sir?” “Your father was about your height and nearly as large, and fashions have not changed much.” A few moments afterwards Gaston was in the room which his father had occupied twenty-seven years before. The taciturn housekeeper, eyeing him excitedly the while, put out the clothes. He did not say anything till she was about to go. Then: “Hovey, were you here in my father’s time?” “I was under-parlourmaid, sir,” she said. “And you are housekeeper now--good!” The face of the woman crimsoned, hiding her dour wrinkles. She turned away her head. “I’d have given my right hand if he hadn’t gone, sir.” Gaston whistled softly, then: “So would he, I fancy, before he died. But I shall not go, so you will not need to risk a finger for me. I am going to stay, Hovey. Good-night. Look after Brillon, please.” He held out his hand. Her fingers twitched in his, then grasped them nervously. “Yes, sir. Good-night, Sir. It’s--it’s like him comin’ back, sir.” Then she suddenly turned and hurried from the room, a blunt figure to whom emotion was not graceful. “H’m!” said Gaston, as he shut the door. “Parlourmaid then, eh? History at every turn! ‘Voici le sabre de mon pere!’” CHAPTER III. HE TELLS THE STORY OF HIS LIFE