e room of Mr Somebody Else transferred.

"And your successor, what sort of man is he?" he said at length.

"Shaston? Frederick Romsey Shaston. A devil of a name that, Musgrave.
Well, he's rather like his name, rather a pompous sort of chap. I
remember him four years ago, when he was `acting' at Maraisburg. He was
always getting his judgments reversed. He's not a bad sort of fellow
though; not at all a bad sort of fellow at bottom."

This is a species of eulogy which is of the faintly exculpatory order,
and from both the words and the tone none knew better than Roden
Musgrave that his new chief would be almost certain to prove a direct
antithesis to his old one.

"No, he isn't a bad sort of fellow, Musgrave, if you take him the right
way. You'll get on all right."

In his heart of hearts the speaker knew as surely as he could know
anything that the two would _not_ get on all right; however, he was not
going to say so.

"It isn't the `getting on' part of it I'm thinking of, Mr Van Stolz,"
said Roden. "Can't you credit me with realising that true friends are
scarce, and not feeling overjoyed at the prospect of losing a firm
specimen of the article?"

"Of course, of course. I understand. But, Musgrave, old boy, you
mustn't talk about losing a friend, hope we shall not have seen the last
of each other because I have left this. Why, we have had plenty of good
times together, and will have plenty more. The wife likes you so much,
too. No, no. Of one thing we may be sure. You have always firm
friends in us, no matter what happens."

"Thank you. I am sure of it," said Roden, on whom the words struck with
something like a presentiment. And the time was coming when he was
destined to remember them.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Cantering over the grassy flats in the slant of the golden sun-gleam,
Roden's mind dwelt more and more on that mysterious midnight warning
which had startled him from a slumber destined otherwise to end in the
slumber of death. So signal had been its result, that the anxiety which
had at first beset him, lest evil hovered over its utterer, was quite
dispelled, giving place to a strange, sweet awe so foreign to his nature
that he could hardly recognise his very self. Now, as he drew near
Suffield's house, he smiled curiously at his own eagerness, and made
believe to check it. There stood the homestead against its background
of green