It was not the fact of having slept little which got him up at that unusually early hour; but necessity has no law, and he was obliged to rise. A famous autumn fair, held at some fifteen miles' distance, and which he never failed to attend, was the moving power. His horse was to be ready for him, and he would ride there to breakfast; according to his annual custom. Down he went; sleepy, cross, gaping; and the first thing he did was to stumble over a pair of boots at the back-door. The slightest thing would put Mr. Chattaway out when in his present temper. For the matter of that, a slight thing would put him out at any time. What business had the servants to leave boots about in _his_ way? They knew he would be going out by the back-door the first thing in the morning, on his way to the stables. Mr. Chattaway gave the things a kick, unbolted the door, and drew it open. Whose were they? Now that the light was admitted, he saw at a glance that they were a gentleman's boots, not a servant's. Had Cris stolen in by the back-door last night and left his there? No; Cris came in openly at the front, came in early, before Mr. Chattaway went to bed. And--now that he looked more closely--those boots were too small for Cris. They were Rupert's! Yes, undoubtedly they were Rupert's boots. What brought them there? Rupert could not pass through thick walls and barred up doors. Mr. Chattaway, completely taken back, stooped and stared at the boots as if they had been two curious animals. A faint sound interrupted him. It was the approach of the first servant coming down to her day's work; a brisk young girl called Bridget, who acted as kitchenmaid. "What brings these boots here?" demanded Mr. Chattaway, in the repelling tone he generally used to his servants. Bridget advanced and looked at them. "They are Mr. Rupert's, sir," answered she. "I did not ask you whose they were: I asked what brought them here. These boots must have been worn yesterday." "I suppose he left them here last night; perhaps came in at this door," returned the girl, wondering what business of her master's the boots could be. "Perhaps he did not," retorted Mr. Chattaway. "He did not come in at all last night." "Oh yes, he did, sir. He's in his room now." "Who's in his room?" rejoined Mr. Chattaway, believing the girl was either mistaken or telling a wilful untruth. "Mr. Rupert, sir. Wasn't it him you were asking about?" "Mr. Rupert is not in his room. How dare you say so to my face?" "But he is," said the girl. "Leastways, unless he has gone out of it this morning." "Have you been in his room to see?" demanded Mr. Chattaway, in his ill-humour. "No, sir, I have not; it's not likely I should presume to do such a thing. But I saw Mr. Rupert go into his room last night; so it's only natural to suppose he is there this morning." The words confounded Mr. Chattaway. "You must have been dreaming, girl."