changed. He was just a little more caustic than ever,
his tongue a little sharper. The servants could have told a different
story, a story of dark moods and days when the bitterness of the shadow
of death lay on the face of their master. Few men could carry their grief
better, and because Littimer carried his grief so well he suffered the
more. We shall see what the sorrow was in time.

There are few more beautiful places in England than Littimer Castle.
The house stood on a kind of natural plateau with many woods behind, a
trout stream ran clean past the big flight of steps leading to the hall,
below were terrace after terrace of hanging gardens, and to the left a
sloping, ragged drop of 200ft into the sea. To the right lay a
magnificently-timbered park, with a herd of real wild deer--perhaps the
only herd of this kind in the country. When the sun shone on the grey
walls they looked as if they had been painted by some cunning hand, so
softly were the greys and reds and blues blended.

Inside the place was a veritable art gallery. There were hundreds of
pictures and engravings there. All round the grand staircase ran a long,
deep corridor, filled with pictures. There were alcoves here fitted up as
sitting-rooms, and in most of them some gem or another was hung. When the
full flood of electric light was turned on at night the effect was almost
dazzling. There were few pictures in the gallery without a history.

Lord Littimer had many hobbies, but not one that interested him like
this. There were hundreds of rare birds shot by him in different parts
of the world; the corridors and floors were covered by skins, the spoil
of his rifle; here and there a stuffed bear pranced startlingly; but
the pictures and prints were the great amusement of his lordship's
lonely life.

He passed along the corridor now towards the great oriel window at the
end. A brilliant sunlight filled the place with shafts of golden and blue
and purple as it came filtered through the stained glass. At a table in
the window a girl sat working a typewriter. She might have passed for
beautiful, only her hair was banded down in hideously Puritan fashion on
each side of her delicate, oval face, her eyes were shielded by
spectacles. But they were lovely, steady, courageous blue eyes, as
Littimer did not fail to observe. Also he had not failed to note that his
new secretary could do very well without the glasses.

The typewriter and secretary business was a