ady characters in
his nomadic existence. But you must question him yourself. It was Alick
who made me send you the telegram, as Mr. Rossiter goes back to town
this evening."

"You were quite right to send for me," returned Malcolm, and then he
followed her into a pleasant room with a bay window overlooking the
front drive.

Malcolm gave a slight start of recognition when he saw the American. It
was not the first time he had seen the lean brown face and deep-set
eyes, but he kept this to himself. In spite of his nasal twang and a
little surface roughness, Hugh Rossiter was decidedly a gentleman: the
mere fact of his presence at the Manor House was a sufficient proof of
this. But he was evidently a very eccentric and unconventional being.
In age he was about seven-and-thirty.

Malcolm, who felt his position was somewhat delicate, hardly knew how
to begin the conversation; but Colonel Godfrey soon put things on a
comfortable footing.

"Look here, Rossiter," he said frankly, "we are all friends here, and
you may speak out. Mr. Herrick is very much interested in this young
fellow, Cedric Templeton, and acts as a sort of guide, philosopher, and
friend to him. He has always put his foot down as far as the Jacobis
were concerned; he and my wife were dead against them."

"I never believed in the man," observed Malcolm; "there was no ring of
true metal about him."

"You are about right there," returned the American; "but I have come
across worse fellows than Saul Jacobi. He is a clever chap--about as
cute as they make 'em, and knows a trick or two; he is not too nice,
does not stick at trifles, and the almighty dollar is his only deity."

"Do you mind telling my friend Herrick all you said to us?" asked
Colonel Godfrey.

"Not the least, if you have a taste for chestnuts," and Hugh Rossiter
laughed in a genial way. "I owe you a good turn, Colonel--" but here
Colonel Godfrey held up a warning hand. "Well, I suppose I must spare
your blushes, so I will take up my parable."

"May I ask you one question first?" interrupted Malcolm. "How long have
you known these people?"

"About six or seven years, I should say," was the answer. "Jacobi was a
billiard-marker in San Francisco when I first came across his trail,
and his sister had just married an Italian count."

"Married! Leah Jacobi married! What on earth do you mean?"

"That's so," returned the American coolly. "Count Antonio Ferrari--that
was the name; a hoary old si