owed,
but he waved them back crisply.

"Miss Lee," he said, with a faint, sarcastic emphasis, "and my dear
friend and relative, Reginald Henson--Reginald, the future owner of
Littimer Castle!"

"So he told me, but I wouldn't believe him," said Christabel.

"It is a cynical age," Littimer remarked. "Reginald, what does
this mean?"

Henson shook his head uneasily.

"The young lady persisted in taking me for a burglar," he groaned.

"And why not?" Christabel demanded. "I was just going to bed when I heard
voices in the forecourt below and footsteps creeping along. I came into
the corridor with my revolver. Presently one of the men climbed up the
ivy and got into the corridor. I covered him with my revolver and fairly
drove him into a bedroom and locked him in."

"So you killed with both barrels?" Littimer cried, with infinite
enjoyment.

"Then the other one came. He came to steal the Rembrandt."

"Nothing of the kind," the wretched Henson cried. "I came to give you a
lesson, Lord Littimer. My idea was to get in through the window, steal
the Rembrandt, and, when you had missed it, confess the whole story. My
character is safe."

"Giddy," Littimer said, reproachfully. "You are so young, so boyish, so
buoyant, Reginald. What would your future constituents have said had they
seen you creeping up the ivy? They are a grave people who take themselves
seriously. Egad, this would be a lovely story for one of those prying
society papers. 'The Philanthropist and the Picture.' I've a good mind to
send it to the Press myself."

Littimer sat down and laughed with pure enjoyment.

"And where is the other partridge?" he asked, presently.

Christabel seemed to hesitate for a moment, her sense of humour of the
situation had departed. Her hand shook as she turned the key in the door.

"I am afraid you are going to have an unpleasant surprise," Henson said.

Littimer glanced keenly at the speaker. All the laughter died out of
his eyes; his face grew set and stern as Frank Littimer emerged into
the light.

"And what are you doing here?" he asked, hoarsely. "What do you expect to
gain by taking part in a fool's trick like this? Did I not tell you never
to show your face here again?"

The young man said nothing. He stood there looking down, dogged, quiet,
like one tongue-tied. Littimer thundered out his question again. He
crossed over, laying his hands on his son's shoulders and shaking him as
a terrier might shake a rat.