side-table, and beneath it
stood a row of clogs and goloshes.

Round the walls hung full-length portraits of an early Victorian date.
The artist had spent a couple of months at Barracombe fifty years
since, and had painted three generations of the Crewys family, who
were then gathered together beneath its hospitable roof. His diligence
had been more remarkable than his ability. At any other time John
Crewys would have laughed outright at this collection of works of art.

But the air was charged with tragedy, and he could not laugh. His
seriousness commended him favourably, had he known it, to the two
old ladies, his cousins, Sir Timothy's half-sisters, who were seated
beside the great log fire, and who regarded him with approving eyes.
For their stranger cousin had that extreme gentleness and courtesy
of manner and regard, which sometimes accompanies unusual strength,
whether of character or of person.

It was a pity, old Lady Belstone whispered to her spinster sister,
that John was not a Crewys, for he had a remarkably fine head, and had
he been but a little taller and slimmer, would have been a credit to
the family.

Certainly John was not a Crewys. He possessed neither grey eyes, nor a
large nose, nor the height which should be attained by every man and
woman bearing that name, according to the family record.

But though only of middle size, and rather square-shouldered, he was,
nevertheless, a distinguished-looking man, with a finely shaped head
and well-cut features. Clean shaven, as a great lawyer ought to be,
with a firm and rather satirical mouth, a broad brow, and bright
hazel eyes set well apart and twinkling with humour. No doubt John's
appearance had been a factor in his successful career.

The sisters, themselves well advanced in the seventies, spoke of him
and thought of him as a young man; a boy who had succeeded in life in
spite of small means, and an extravagant mother, to whom he had
been obliged to sacrifice his patrimony. But though he carried his
forty-five years lightly, John Crewys had left his boyhood very far
behind him. His crisp dark hair was frosted on the temples; he stooped
a little after the fashion of the desk-worker; he wore pince-nez; his
manner, though alert, was composed and dignified. The restlessness,
the nervous energy of youth, had been replaced by the calm confidence
of middle age--of tested strength, of ripe experience.

On his side, John Crewys felt very kindly towards