Webster was annoyed. He had fully intended there and then--since the opportunity seemed to offer itself--to ask Mr. Cass for his daughter's hand. Plunged in meditation, he did not see that the object of it was beckoning to him with her very useful fan, and Heron, taking advantage of his absorption, secured the vacant seat. Before he could recover himself, Mr. Cass appeared to carry him off to the drawing-room. "You must play to me," he said. "Miss Brawn will accompany you; she plays well." Jennie did, indeed, play more like a professional than an amateur; and Webster, anxious as ever to please, got his violin. The sounds of the exquisite music which he drew from the wailing strings brought everyone to the drawing-room. Then Geoffrey Heron sang, and sang well. He chose a typical drawing-room ballad, flat and insipid. The music, of a lilting order, suited the words--Miss Jennie Brawn's--which were full of mawkish sentiment. The song was not yet finished when Mr. Marshall suddenly rose and hurriedly left the room. His wife looked after him with an uneasy smile, and shortly afterwards followed, to find him in the winter garden. "What is the matter?" she asked, sharply, though she knew quite well what it was that had stirred him. "Jenner," stammered her husband, lifting up a white face. "Heron's voice reminds me of his. I have never heard him sing before." "Nor will you again if you make such a fool of yourself. What do you mean by rushing out of the room and provoking remark? Jenner is dead and buried these twelve years." "Yes; but think how he died," moaned her husband. "And I was so intimate with him." "You were--to your shame and disgrace. Don't behave so foolishly, Robert. I don't know what put him into your head in the first place." "Heron's voice is so like his--and the looks of Webster." Mrs. Marshall turned as pale as her swarthy skin permitted, and the fan in her hand shook. "What about him?" she asked. "He is like----" "I know who he is like," she interrupted, sharply. "A mere chance resemblance. Come back with me." "I am going to bed," was the only response, and, turning abruptly, Mr. Marshall fled up the stairs, leaving his wife gazing after him with a black frown on her face. "I wonder if that young man--but no; it's impossible. Sebastian," she spoke of her brother, "would not go so far." And after composing herself with a glass of water she returned to the drawing-room. By this time Webster was seated beside Ruth, who was shewing him a book of photographs. Geoffrey Heron was talking to Mr. Cass, and casting glances at the two young people who were getting on much too well for his liking. Suddenly the whole room was startled by a cry. It came from Neil, who, with a white face, was staring at a photograph. "What's the matter?" asked his host, hurrying towards him. "Are you ill?" "Who-who-is this?" stammered young Webster, pointing to the portrait of a thick-set man who figured in a group.