tion of that
first journey with Peter Masters from London came to the surface of
his mind, and written large across, in Peter's own handwriting, were
the words, "Aymer's son."

He had put that idea deliberately behind his back, hidden it in the
deepest recess of his mind, with a strange content and a germ of pride
unconfessed and unacknowledged to himself. It remained a secret
feeling that touched at no point his steady faith and devotion to his
dead mother.

But Peter's suggestion had utterly quenched his original intention of
asking Mr. Aston or Caesar of his own origin, as he had intended to do
at the time of his return from Belgium. The actual possibility or
impossibility of the idea counted nothing so long as the faintest
shadow of it lurked there in the background. If it were a fact, it was
their secret, deliberately withheld; if it were not, he must be the
last to give it life.

The incalculable power of suggestion had done its work and the
suggested lie, taking root, had grown at the pace of all ill weeds and
obscured his usually clear visions of essentials. The more he
questioned the possible fact the denser seemed the screen between him
and Patricia, until he called himself a fool to have dreamed she was
ever his to claim at all.

It was in this wholly unsatisfactory mood he was called upon, on his
return, to face Patricia and give his own account of the interview.

Patricia was lying in wait for him at the door of her own sanctum,
which he had to pass on his way to his room. He would have gladly
deferred the interview, but she summoned him imperiously.

"There's a good hour till dinner, Christopher, and I must know what he
said. How long you've been!"

He followed her in and closed the door behind him. The little
white-panelled room was so perfect an expression of its owner that at
all times Christopher felt a still wonder fall on him to find himself
within its confines. It was singularly uncrowded and free, and the
monotonous note of light colour was broken by splashes of brightness
that were as an embroidery to the plain setting.

Patricia turned to him with questioning eyes and no words, and the
difficulty of his task made him a little curt and direct in speech,
for otherwise how could he avoid voicing the tenderness that flowed to
her.

"I told him about it and he seemed surprised he hadn't been told
before, and he hadn't really taken in what happened this afternoon at
all. I expect he'll wri