und of a tap at the
door, followed by the entrance of a maid whose office it was especially
to attend on Miss West.

"If you please, miss," she said, in a low and rather confidential
tone--"if you please, there's a--a person at the door that asks to see
you."

"It is late for visitors," said Cynthia. "A lady, Mary?"

"No, miss."

"A gentleman? I do not see gentlemen, when Madame is out, at this hour
of the night. It is ten o'clock. Tell him to come to-morrow."

"I did, miss. He said to-morrow wouldn't do. He asked me to mention
'Beechfield' to you, miss, and to say that he came from America."

"Old or young, Mary?" The color was leaving Cynthia's face.

"Old, miss. He has white hair and black eyes, and looks like a sort of
superior working-man."

Cynthia deliberated. Mary watched her in silence, and then made a
low-voiced suggestion.

"There's cook's young man in the kitchen, miss, and he's a policeman.
Shall I ask him to step up to the front and tell the man to move on?"

"Oh, no, no!" said Cynthia, suddenly shrinking. "I will see the man,
Mary. I think that perhaps he knows a place--some people that I used to
know."

There was a sort of terror in her face. Mary turned rather reluctantly
to the door.

"Shall I come in too, miss, or shall I stand in the passage?"

"Neither," said Cynthia, with a little laugh. "Go down to your supper,
Mary, and I will manage the visitor. Show him in here."

She seemed so composed once more that Mary was reassured. The girl went
back to the hall door, and Cynthia rose to her feet with the look of one
who was nerving herself for some terrible ordeal. She kept her eyes upon
the door; but, when the visitor appeared, they were so dim with
agitation that she could hardly see the face or the features of the man
whom Mary decorously announced as--

"Mr. Reuben Dare."

CHAPTER XXVIII.

Cynthia looked round at her visitor with a sort of timidity which she
did not often exhibit. He was apparently about sixty years of age,
broad-shouldered, and muscularly built, but with a stiffness of gait
which seemed to be either the result of chronic rheumatism or of an
accident which had partially disabled him. His face was brown, his eyes
were dark and bright; but his hair and beard were almost white, although
his eyebrows had not a grizzled tint. He was roughly but respectably
dressed, and looked like a prosperous yeoman or an artisan of the better
class. Cynthia glanced at him