e with patient sorrow and
despair. He hardly turned as they entered.

"How do you do, Peter," he said unenthusiastically, "why do you buy
pictures like that by men who don't even know the subject they are
painting?"

"I'll burn it to-morrow. What's the matter with Aymer, Nevil?"

Nevil looked reproachfully at Christopher.

"Nothing is the matter, as I told Christopher, only I'd a man to see
at Leamington and thought I could get a fellow victim here for the
journey home."

"I'll meet you in London on Monday," put in the fellow victim quietly
to Mr. Masters.

Peter looked from one to the other, lastly he looked long at
Christopher and Christopher looked at him. Nothing short of the
revelation Peter was as yet unprepared to make would stop Christopher
from going to Aymer Aston that night he knew, and if he let the boy go
back with the truth untold, it would be forever untold--by _him_. That
it _was_ the Truth was a conviction now. There was no space left for a
shadow of mistrust in his mind.

"If you go by the mail we'd better dine at eight sharp," he said
abruptly. "I want to see you, Christopher, before you go, in my room."
He turned towards the door, adding as an afterthought, "You must look
after Nevil till I am free."

Nevil gave a gentle sigh of satisfaction as the door closed.

Christopher laughed. The relief was so unexpected, so astounding.
"We'll have some tea in the orangery," he said after a moment's
consideration. "You may not like the statuary, but the orange trees at
least offer no anachronisms."

Peter Masters shut the door of his room with a bang and going to an
ever-ready tray, helped himself to a whiskey and soda with a free
hand. Then he carefully selected a cigar of a brand he kept for the
Smoke of Great Decisions, and lit it. All this he did mechanically, by
force of habit, but after it was done, habit found no path for itself,
for Peter Masters was treading new roads, wandering in unaccustomed
regions, and found no solution to his problem in the ancient ways.

Was he, who for thirty-five years of life--from full manhood till
now--had never consulted any will or pleasure but his own--was he now
going to make a supreme denial to himself for no better reason than
the easing of a stricken man's burden?

The man once had been his friend, but the boy was his. And he wanted
him. He clenched his fist on the thought. He was perfectly aware of
his own will in this matter.

Even from the mater