Ian said; very well, why remain? His attendance at the House? Well, it would soon be up for the session. Besides, the most effective thing he could do was to disappear for the time. Be unexpected--that was the key to notoriety. Delia Gasgoyne? Well, as Gaston had said, they were to meet in the Mediterranean in September; meanwhile a brief separation would be good for both. Last of all--he did not wish to press it--but there was a promise! Gaston answered quietly, at last: “I will redeem the promise.” “When?” “Within thirty-six hours.” “That is, you will be at my studio in Paris within thirty-six hours from now?” “That is it.” “Good! I shall start at eight to-morrow morning. You will bring your horse, Cadet?” “Yes, and Brillon.” “He isn’t necessary.” Ian’s brow clouded slightly. “Absolutely necessary.” “A fantastic little beggar. You can get a better valet in France. Why have one at all?” “I shall not decline from Brillon on a Parisian valet. Besides, he comes as my camarade.” “Goth! Goth! My friend the valet! Cadet, you’re a wonderful fellow, but you’ll never fit in quite.” “I don’t wish to fit in; things must fit me.” Ian smiled to himself. “He has tasted it all--it’s not quite satisfying--revolution next! What a smash-up there’ll be! The romantic, the barbaric overlaps. Well, I shall get my picture out of it, and the estate too.” Gaston toyed with his wine-glass, and was deep in thought. Strange to say, he was seeing two pictures. The tomb of Sir Gaston in the little church at Ridley: A gipsy’s van on the crest of a common, and a girl standing in the doorway. CHAPTER XII. HE STANDS BETWEEN TWO WORLDS The next morning he went down to the family solicitor’s office. He had done so, off and on, for weeks. He spent the time in looking through old family papers, fishing out ancient documents, partly out of curiosity, partly from an unaccountable presentiment. He had been there about an hour this morning when a clerk brought him a small box, which, he said, had been found inside another box belonging to the Belward-Staplings, a distant branch of the family. These had asked for certain ancient papers lately, and a search had been made, with this result. The little box was not locked, and the key was in it. How the accident occurred was not difficult to imagine. Generations ago there had probably been a conference of the two branches of the family, and the clerk had inadvertently locked the one box within the other. This particular box of the Belward-Staplings was not needed again. Gaston felt that here was something. These hours spent among old papers had given him strange sensations, had, on the one hand, shown him his heritage; but had also filled him with the spirit of that by-gone time. He had grown further away from the present. He had played his part as in a drama: his real life was in the distant past and out in the land of the heathen.