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“Where’s Monset?” he asked, when the butler had appeared with the tray of whisky and sandwiches he had ordered.

“A Miss Grenton called to take him to Quaker’s Dene in her car, sir,” Mead replied. “Mr. Monset is painting there, I believe.”

Edmund grunted.

“And my uncle?”

“He came downstairs this morning, sir,” Mead said, smiling for the first time. “His foot is not worrying him so much to-day.”

“Where is he now?” Edmund asked idly.

Mead hesitated.

“I believe he is in your late aunt’s room,” he said at last.

Edmund glanced up and frowned. All along he had resented the locked room at Carbay Hall, and the fact that the Squire rarely entered it until he was sure that his nephew was well out of the way. So he was rummaging in there to-day! Edmund’s lips twisted into a smile. Sentimental old fool! Probably he kept the room just as she had left it.

Edmund shrugged impatiently and rose to his feet, angry at the knowledge that the room behind the locked door had still power to stimulate an overwhelming curiosity within him. He stood gazing out of the window for a moment, his thoughts reverting to the more engrossing subject of Travayne’s purchase of Conningscliff, and then he crossed to the door and stepped out into the hall. He was immediately aware of voices—Mead’s and a strained, reedy voice which he recognised as his uncle’s. He swung round and saw the butler emerging from the doorway of the room which had been kept closed so long. Mead was supporting the Squire, who was obviously in great pain.

“Mr. Edmund—will you come, sir?” Mead called.

“My foot gave way under me,” the Squire said testily, as his nephew came up. “The thing’s most irritating. I can’t stand.”

“We’d better get him up to his room, sir,” Mead suggested.

Between them they negotiated the stairs and carried the Squire to his room. Edmund looked on while the butler settled his master in comparative comfort in a big easy-chair drawn up to the window with a brocaded stool as a rest for the inflamed foot. Alric Veycourt was irritable and disinclined to talk.

“Turn the key in my wife’s room, Mead,” he commanded, “and bring it up to me when next you come. You needn’t make a special journey with it.”

Edmund followed the butler from the room and down the wide staircase. He watched Mead turn the key in the closed door, with a peculiar expression on his face. When the butler was about to turn away, Edmund approached the stairs again.

“You can give me the key, Mead,” he said. “I’m going up and I can hand it in to my uncle when I pass his room.”

“Oh, thank you, sir.”

The butler handed over the key and departed in the direction of the passage which led to the kitchens. Edmund went as far as the head of the stairs, and then, looking over the banister to make sure that the hall was deserted, he retraced his steps, inserted the key in the lock, and turned it noiselessly. In another second he was within the room and had locked the door behind him.

He turned round with a sigh of mingled relief and satisfaction. That he was trespassing did not seem to matter; his curiosity and the desire to satisfy it were greater than any finer feeling which might have possessed him.

The room had that airless smell peculiar to all places which have been shut up for a considerable length of time, but it had nothing in common with a storeroom. It might have been inhabited by a fastidious woman the week before. Everything stood in order as his dead aunt had left it. There was a personal air about the room which, even after all those years, was unmistakable. Edmund crossed the thick Persian carpet and stood in the bay of the window, looking out. The view was over the lawns, which stretched along the west side of the house, terminating in the belt of trees which screened them from the sea. Edmund knew this; he had gazed at those windows on many occasions, and he had not come here to waste time.

He turned back into the room, and it was then that the portrait above the mantelpiece caught his eye. He went over to it slowly, drawn there by the painted eyes of the woman pictured on the big canvas. He knew that it was an early portrait of his aunt—by the dress and veil he judged it a wedding portrait—and also that it was the only picture of her he had ever seen. Alric Veycourt had considered that his sister had made an unfortunate marriage when she became the wife of Clarence Hersheil, and their respective families had never met. Until Veycourt had so unexpectedly summoned the orphaned Edmund to Carbay Hall and hinted that, in all probability, he would make him his heir, Edmund had not made the acquaintance of his uncle.

However, there was more to Edmund Hersheil’s concentrated stare than idle curiosity. Something about the beautiful face above him stirred a vague chord of memory. He stood for many minutes before the portrait and then he turned away, still unable to trace the resemblance of which he was becoming more acutely aware.

Two tapestry-covered easy-chairs were drawn up to the fireplace, and beside one stood a small table on which a work-basket had been laid. Two skeins of blue embroidery thread still lay upon the table. Edmund was impatient of ideals and memories. He pushed one of the chairs aside and crossed to the small walnut secretaire which stood against the far wall.

Two silver-framed photographs stood on the polished surface of the desk. One he recognised instantly as his uncle at an earlier period of his life; the other he held in his hand for several minutes. His body grew rigid as he continued to stare down at the pictured face, and his dark brows drew together until they met in a straight line above his eyes. The portrait was that of a boy in his early teens, but as Edmund continued to look down at it, the features might have been those of the man whose name trembled

on his shaking lips.

“My God! Travayne? It’s impossible!” he muttered.

He carried the photograph over to the fireplace and stood it on the mantelpiece below the portrait of his aunt. There was no mistaking mother and son.

“It’s incredible—utterly incredible!” he muttered again.

He took the silver frame in his hands and crossed to the window where the light fell full upon it. Much that had puzzled him in the past seemed to fit into a pattern like a mosaic as he stood there. Here, if his supposition was justified, was reason for many things: for Travayne’s return to Conningscliff after that first visit at Easter; for his interest in the place; his obvious reason for the secretive purchase of the farm; and, lastly, reason enough for his own instinctive hatred of the man who called himself John Travayne!

Travayne was his cousin. No, Edmund thought, there could be no mistake, and somewhere in this room might be the ultimate proof.

With almost feverish haste he crossed to the secretaire and began to pull open the shallow drawers one by one. He had not far to seek. In the third drawer he came upon a second photograph of the youth in the silver frame—one taken at a later date and bearing more closely than ever the resemblance to Travayne. Beneath it lay a yellowing envelope. It was the work of a second for Edmund to extract the document which lay within and spread it out on the desk before him. It was the birth certificate of his cousin, John Veycourt, and the mother’s name was given on it as Isobel Travayne.

Edmund told himself savagely that he had not needed this final proof to convince him. Travayne had taken his mother’s maiden name when he went abroad—probably changed it by deed-poll. But why had he come back? Why—more urgent thought—was he remaining silent?

Then the realisation of what John Veycourt’s return and recognition might mean for himself, swept over him like an engulfing sea. He sank down on the chair and clutched photograph and paper in his hands as if he would tear them into unrecognisable fragments. Slowly, however, the first frenzy of anger passed, but he continued to sit staring into space. At the end of ten minutes he moved. Very deliberately he replaced the envelope in the drawer, folding the certificate of birth and placing it in his wallet with the second photograph. He stood up, replaced the silver frame on the desk, and crossed to the door, a smile about his thin lips that was not pleasant to see.

“And now, Mr. John Veycourt,” he murmured, “we’ll wait for your next move!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

On a Saturday evening the “Swan and Ladder” at Carbay village was a popular meeting-place. Geordie Armstrong, the genial proprietor, had soon recognised the advantages of a brightly lit saloon and a bit of music to keep the fun going. He stood behind the small horse-shoe bar and beamed encouragement at his customers.

“The lads are in fine fettle the night!” he remarked to Will Finberry, who took a weekly pint of ale with clockwork regularity at the “Swan and Ladder” every Saturday night.

“Aye, they are that,” Finberry remarked, raising his glass. “Here’s to continued prosperity, Geordie!”

As he laid down his froth-stained glass and prepared to count out the price of his pint, a little, ferret-faced man approached the counter. He had the pallid skin of the indoor worker, and Will recognised him as Albert Beck, the local grocer. Beck slapped Finberry on the back with an attempt at joviality and asked in a loud voice what Will would have.

“Nowt, thanks,” Will replied rather sourly.

“He can’t hold more nor one!” somebody remarked from the back of the room.

“Maybe he can hold his information better nor his beer!” another voice replied.

There was a general laugh while Will glared at the speaker and then back at Albert Beck.

“Was there somethin’ you was wantin’ to know?” he inquired coldly.

“Aye, Will.” Beck spoke confidentially. “We were sure a clever fellow like you would have suspected right from the start if there was anything in it.”

“In what?” Will demanded, his lower lip protruding aggressively.

“In a’ this talk about the Squire’s son.”

“I’ve heard no such talk,” Will told him, realising quickly that by this time the whole room was awaiting his reply in a hushed silence foreign to the saloon of the “Swan and Ladder” on a Saturday night.

“But you’ll not deny you’ve seen the stranger from India?” Beck persisted. “The one Miss Farday has been gallivantin’ to the Newcastle hoppings with?”

Will wiped his lips carefully on the back of his big hand.

“If you’re meanin’ Mr. Travayne,” he said slowly, as he turned to the door, “I’ve seen him, but Miss Ruth’s doings is neither business o’ yours nor mine.” He turned to the proprietor. “Good night to ye, Geordie Armstrong!"

He ignored Beck completely, and went through the door into the street, but not before he had heard the voice of his recent interrogator raised in triumph above the general din which had broken out in the saloon.

“I told ye I was right!” Albert Beck declared. “Travayne was her name before she married Alric Veycourt, an’ I never forget a face! Yon stranger was too like the Squire’s son for the likeness to escape any o’ us—save perhaps Willie Finberry!”

The last dig left Finberry unperturbed as the significance of the remark preceding it sank into his brain. He was back in the familiar yard at Conningscliff before the full meaning of the grocer’s words made themselves clear. The knowledge sat heavily upon him for the remainder of the evening, although it did not disturb his night’s rest. In the morning he sought out Peg Emery.

“Peg,” he said, leaning against the jamb of the dairy door, “did ye ever see the Squire’s son—the rightful heir to the Hall, I’m meanin’?”

Peg glanced at him searchingly.

“No,” she said somewhat abruptly. “I came to these parts after the lad had gone.”

Will sucked reflectively at a piece of straw he had pulled from a stack as he passed the yard.

“Then ye’ll no’ be knowin’,” he remarked.

Peg graded three eggs with great care before she asked:

“Knowing what?”

“Whether that Mr. Travayne was like the Squire’s son or

no’?”

An egg fell to the wooden bench and Peg scooped it angrily into a basin and laid it aside.

“Have ye been listening to that gossip, too, Wil Finberry?” she accused. “I thought ye would have had more sense in that skull o’ yours!”

“I’m no’ sayin’ I was gossipin’,” Will defended himself. “That’s a woman’s trait!”

“Ye know you’re wrong!” Peg flashed. “How did ye hear it

since ye never speak to a woman, then?” she added triumphantly.

Such reasoning was apt to confuse Will.

“I heard it in the ‘Swan’ last night,” he admitted. “And I suppose ye talked your head off and gave them a’ the details?”

“I said nowt,” Finberry assured her.

“Just as well for ye!” Peg told him. “Here!” she thrust a basket into his hands, “gather up what eggs there is in the far runs, and let me tell ye if ye work hard enough ye’ll not have time for gossip!”

Peg veered in mental indecision all morning, and finally decided that she would not add to Ruth’s burdens by repeating gossip which was probably unfounded. She watched Ruth reading aloud to her father most of the Sunday afternoon until the farmer dropped off to sleep, and something about the droop of the girl’s shoulders as she rose to come inside made Peg suggest kindly:

“Leave the tea things to me, Miss Ruth, and take a rest for a while.”