"There is no other door but this one," replied Mrs. Dexter. "You see, it's only a kind of ante-room. But you need not be afraid of disturbing his lordship; he will be sure to go to the drawing-room or his own sitting-room, after he has had his dinner. Though there's no cause for you to be nervous at meeting his lordship, for he's one of the kindest of men, especially to anyone in his service." Celia ate her dinner and returned to the library, where she worked for a couple of hours to make up for the time she had lost in the afternoon; then she took up an exquisitely-bound copy of Spenser's "Faerie Queene" and settled herself in a chair for half an hour's quiet reading. But the great masterpiece could not hold her attention; she let it lie on her lap and thought of her adventures of the day; she tried not to dwell on Susie's tragedy, though it was difficult not to do so; and presently her mind reverted to Brown's Buildings, to Mr. Clendon and the young man she had rescued. And yet "rescued," she thought, with a sigh, was scarcely the word, for, unwittingly, she had made him a fugitive and an outcast. The great house was quiet, and, relying on Mrs. Dexter's assurance that she ran no risk of intruding upon the Marquess, she turned out the lights and went into the hall. On the threshold she drew back, with a little flutter of excitement, for in the dim light of the great fire, which was always burning, she saw a tall, thin figure in evening dress standing with its hands clasped behind it. It was the Marquess. She saw distinctly the pale, worn face, the thin, almost colourless lips, drawn into a line that indicated profound sadness and a deep anxiety. He was standing before the portrait of the lad, his elder brother, of whose history Mrs. Dexter had told her; the elder brother who, if he had not died, "in foreign parts," would have been the Marquess instead of the man who was gazing at the portrait. Celia stood quite still, her eyes chained to the haggard face; she did not know whether to withdraw into the library or to pass softly behind him and reach the stairs; and while she was hesitating, the Marquess heaved a deep sigh, made a gesture as of a man beaten by some insoluble problem, and, turning, saw her. He did not start--men of his class are taught to repress every sign of emotion--and he stood quite still, looking at her gravely, as if the sudden interruption of his train of absorbing thought had caused him to forget whom she might be; then, as if he had remembered, he came towards her and said: "You are Miss Grant, the librarian, I suppose?" Even as she answered, "Yes, my lord," Celia noted the dull, toneless melancholy of his voice, the voice of a man to whom all things save one, whatever that might be, are but trivial and of no consequence. "I am glad to see you," he said, with a little courtly inclination of his head, but certainly with no gladness in his voice. "I hope you are comfortable here; that you find your work congenial?"