uncertainty. "Poor Hugo!" he said. "He made trouble for you, Edmund—for all of us. It's all forgiven and ought to be forgotten. But where it remains alive it ought to be faced, oughtn't it? He did lead Jim Horsham into bad ways. You've admitted as much as that."

"Yes, I did admit it. It was bad enough. But to lay that a son of mine cheated a brother officer out of a large sum of money—! That was the accusation."

"Crowborough made it when he was worked up about what he had discovered, and he withdrew it."

It was Colonel Eldridge who ended the discussion, and allowed his brother to go free. "Well, that's what we began with," he said. "I'm ready to act on the supposition that he did withdraw it. But I don't feel inclined to meet him this afternoon, William. Thanks all the same."

Sir William took his departure. His brother watched his smart, alert figure crossing the lawn, until it was lost among the trees at the bottom of the garden. Then he rose and sauntered slowly towards the house, and his face was thoughtful and disturbed—more disturbed than the previous conversation might have seemed to warrant.

CHAPTER II

THE GRANGE

Sir William Eldridge, with a step wonderfully light and quick for a man of his years and weight, came out of his brother's garden by a gate that led to a woodland path, and so down a long slope under the thick shade of trees, till the wood gave place to an open meadow bordered by a placid-flowing stream—almost a river. The meadow sloped up to the high woods which enclosed it in a long crescent, but on the other side of the stream was open grass-land, with lines of willows here and there, dykes, and little bits of wooden fences. Cattle were dotted all over it, feeding peacefully in the hot afternoon sunshine, or recumbent on the rich turf. In the distance were more woods, and where the river took a turn and followed the contour of the hill in front, it was seen to be flowing towards a lake of considerable size, to judge by the growth of the trees which encircled and hid all but the nearer end of it.

The river path continued for a quarter of a mile or so, and then once more became a woodland path, turning sharply to the left and rising more steeply than it had dropped in the other wood. The exit there had been by a stile, not as firm as it might have been under the weight of a big man. But this entrance was by a closely fitting gate, and a new solid fence ran away to right and left of it, gate and fence alike carrying an elaborate wire defence against rabbits.

Sir William climbed the steep path, slowly, but not, apparently, because of any necessity to save his breath. He looked to right and left of him with interest at the plantings of shrubs and flowers and ferns that had been made in clearings under the trees. On the outside this was a thick wood, as the other had been; but once through the gate it was seen to be a garden, full of interest and surprise. Little winding paths led off from the main ascent, and Sir William followed one or two of these to look at some treasure that he had established, and lingered over it as if his chief interest in life were the planting and the growth of flowers.

The steep path became a rocky staircase, which emerged from the wood into an elaborate rock garden, so artfully constructed that it seemed almost a natural outcrop from the leafy soil. On the further side the trees closed in on it again, but they had been still further thinned out here and did not conceal the artificially flat expanse of tennis and croquet lawn upon which the path came somewhat too suddenly. Immediately beyond the lawn was a house—a long rambling structure of many-gabled red brick and tile, with rose-covered verandas, loggias, pergolas, and all the paraphernalia of a rich man's country cottage. The original house, of a date somewhere about the seventies, was ugly enough, and had never pretended to be a cottage; and the additions, though in much better architectural taste, were incongruous to it. But it might have been supposed, even from an outside view, that everything about this house would be of the highest possible convenience for a life of country pleasure, and that if anything should occur to its occupants that would improve its amenities in this respect it would promptly be supplied.

Four young people were playing lawn tennis, and four older people were playing croquet, as Sir William came within sight of the lawn, and on the broad pillared veranda which finished off the house at this end other people were sitting, and servants were arranging tea-tables. House and garden seemed to be fulfiling their purpose with these groups of people laughing and talking and playing games in the summer afternoon, and everything at hand to enhance their enjoyment. Sir William's face lightened as he waved his greetings. He loved these lively gatherings of the summer time. He had something to offer at Hayslope Grange that people found it worth while to seek out and enjoy. There was more coming and going between the Grange and Pershore Castle, the Earl of Crowborough's seat five miles away, than between the Castle and Hayslope Hall, although the two families had run neck and neck in this part of the country for generations, and intimacy had established itself between their two houses almost to the exclusion of others.

It was with Lord Crowborough that Sir William walked down to the meadow which he wanted to bring into his garden, while the rest of the party were still busy round the tea-tables. Lord Crowborough was a man of sixty, heavy in bulk and somewhat heavy in demeanour, though with a kindly expression of face and of speech that relieved him of the charge of pomposity. He was disturbed, it appeared, at the coolness that had arisen between him and his old friend and neighbour, Edmund Eldridge, and wanted a word about it alone with Sir William. "Such old friends!" was the burden of his regrets. And he enlarged on it: "Surely such old friends ought to be able to speak freely to one another—even lose their tempers; we both did that, but surely—"

Sir William was more silent under the complaints than would have seemed to be natural to him. "It was the charge of swindling," he said rather shortly.

"Oh, I know," said Lord Crowborough. "After all your kindness, one doesn't want—"

"Never mind about that," Sir William interrupted him almost peremptorily. There was a hint in his manner that spoke of another man than the one who grew his flowers and welcomed his friends at Hayslope Grange. Lord Crowborough, some years older, and of greater apparent importance, seemed to bow to it. "I know it was never to be mentioned," he said, apologetically. "Very well. But really, you know, William—! Well, the poor fellow's dead; but he was an out and out wrong 'un. I did do my best to hush it all up. Edmund must know that. If it had come out he'd have been kicked out of the regiment. I should think he must know that, too, if he thinks straight about it at all."

"Perhaps he doesn't think quite straight about it, poor old chap! You can hardly blame him. As far as I'm concerned I'm going to do all I can to encourage him to think that Hugo was just sowing his wild oats, and that he'd have settled down to be a credit to his name. I'm afraid it isn't true, but surely it's a good thing if Edmund can think so."

"Oh, yes, I quite agree. Poor old fellow! I'll ask him to dine. I remember him quite well as a little fellow—you too, of course. I believe I was even a sort of hero of his when I was a big boy and he was a little one."

Sir William laughed. "Of course you were," he said. "I think that's the line to go on, you know.