on, the
country seat of some fine gentleman in Queen Anne's day. It hid its
beauties, however, from the public gaze, lying modestly back in a
garden whose size had no claim to modesty at all. All one could see
from the road, through the iron gates, was a glimpse of a wide
portico, and a long row of windows. It stood high and in its ample
garden the breeze ran riot, shaking the scent from orange and myrtle
trees, from jasmine and roses, and wafting it in at the wide open
windows of a room which, projecting from the house, seemed to take
command of the garden.

It was a large room and the windows went from ceiling to floor. It was
also a very beautiful room. In the gathering dusk the restful
harmonies of its colours melted into soft, hazy blue, making it appear
vaster than it really was. Also, it was unencumbered by much furniture
and what there was so essentially fitted its place that it was
unobtrusive. Three big canvases occupied the walls, indiscernible in
the dim light, but masterpieces of world fame, heirlooms known all
over Europe. There was a curious dearth of small objects and
unessentials, nothing in all the great space that could fatigue the
eye or perplex the brain of the occupant.

The owner of the room was lying on a big sofa near one of the open
windows. Within reach was a low bookcase, a table with an electric
reading lamp, and a little row of electric bells, some scattered
papers and an open telegram.

The man on the sofa lay quite still looking into the garden as it sunk
from sight under the slowly falling veil of purple night.

He was evidently a tall man, with the head and shoulders of an
athlete, and a face of such precise and unusual beauty that one's
instinct called out, "Here, then, God has planned a man."

Aymer Aston, indeed, was not unlike his father, but far more regular
in feature, more carefully hewn, and the serenity of the older face
was lacking. Here was the face of a fighter, alive with the strong
passions held in by a stronger will. There was almost riotous vitality
expressed in his colouring, coppery-coloured hair and dark brows, eyes
of surprising blueness and a tanned skin, for he spent hours lying in
the sun, hatless and unshaded, with the avowed intention of
"browning"; and he "browned" well except for a queer white triangled
scar almost in the centre of his forehead, an ugly mark that showed up
with fresh distinctness when any emotion brought the quick blood to
his face. The