A few days passed on, and strange rumours began to be rife in the neighbourhood. Various rumours, vague at the best; but all tending to one point--the true heir was coming to his own again. They penetrated even to the ears of Mr. Chattaway, throwing that gentleman into a state not to be described. Some said a later will of the Squire's had been found; some said a will of Joe Trevlyn's; some that it was now discovered the estate could only descend in the direct male line, and consequently it had been Rupert's all along. Chattaway was in a raging fever; it preyed upon him, and turned his days to darkness. He seemed to look upon Rupert with the most intense suspicion, as if it were from him alone--his plotting and working--that the evil would come. He feared to trust him out of his sight; to leave him alone for a single instant. When he went to Blackstone he took Rupert with him; he hovered about all day, keeping Rupert in view, and brought him back in the evening. Miss Diana had not yet bought the pony she spoke of, and Chattaway either mounted him on an old horse that was good for little now, and rode by his side, or drove him over. Rupert was intensely puzzled at this new consideration, and could not make it out. One morning Mr. Chattaway so far sacrificed his own ease as to contemplate walking over: the horses were wanted that day. "Very well," Rupert answered, in his half-careless, half-obedient fashion, "it was all the same to him." And so they started. But as they were going down the avenue a gentleman was discerned coming up it. Mr. Chattaway knit his brows and peered at him; his sight for distance was not quite as good as it had been. "Who's this?" asked he of Rupert. "It is Mr. Peterby," replied Rupert. "Peterby!" ejaculated Chattaway. "What Peterby?" "Peterby of Barmester, the lawyer," explained Rupert, wondering that there was any need to ask. For only one gentleman of the name of Peterby was known to Trevlyn Hold, and Mr. Chattaway was, so to say, familiar with him. He had been solicitor to Squire Trevlyn, and though Mr. Chattaway had not continued him in that post when he succeeded to the estate, preferring to employ Mr. Flood, he yet knew him well. The ejaculation had not escaped him so much in doubt as to the man, as to what he could want with him. But Mr. Peterby was solicitor for some of his tenants, and he supposed it was business touching the renewal of leases. They met. Mr. Peterby was an active little man of more than sixty years, with a healthy colour and the remains of auburn hair. He had walked all the way from Barmester, and enjoyed the walk as much as a schoolboy. "Good morning, Mr. Chattaway," he said, holding out his hand, "I am fortunate in meeting you. I came early, to catch you before you went to Blackstone. Can you give me half-an-hour's interview?"