ution--a state of mind so unusual with him. He
presently shook himself free of the feeling, and decided, since he had
got so far, that he would go on. He inquired the way of the porter, who
had been curiously eyeing him, and, leaving his bag at the station, set
forth for the Priory.

[Illustration: "HE INQUIRED THE WAY."]

As he walked along the not very interesting country road, his thoughts
reverted again to the man he was going to see. What had become of him
since they had parted three years previously--Verschoyle, the first
favourite of his set, who, with his good intellect, brilliant, witty,
and versatile, had seemed capable of almost any mental feat? True, he
had done nothing beyond give the impression that he could do a great
deal if he chose; "and," thought Allan Meredith, "carry home a sheaf of
bills, I expect. He ought to have been the moneyed man, and I the one
obliged to keep to the grindstone, perhaps. I don't know; the very
necessity for doing something may have given him the kind of impetus he
needed--to say nothing of having to keep up the prestige of an ancient
name, which must be some spur to a man."

He had reached the cross-roads, and was recalling the somewhat vague
directions the porter had given him. "Straight on till you come to a
finger-post that seems to point back to the station, but doesn't; take
that road, sir--the Priory lane, it's called--until you come to a swing
gate, leading into a field; cross that, keeping the footpath to the
left, mind you, till you see a stile; get over that, go through the
lodge gates right opposite--though it isn't a lodge now, and there ain't
no gates, only posts--and up an avenue, where all the trees have been
cut down, and there you are. The old place you'll see before you is the
Priory."

Time and weather had effaced whatever information the sign-post had once
afforded, and there was nothing for it but to take the direction in
which it pointed.

He walked slowly on, speculating as to what sort of welcome he was
likely to receive from Verschoyle's people. How little he knew about
them. Frank to effusiveness in some directions, Verschoyle could be
reticent enough in others, and rarely alluded to his family. That he was
an only son, and, at his father's death, had inherited but the wreck of
a once large property, Allan knew. He had also heard that the widowed
mother was still living.

What was Verschoyle doing?--living upon the small property, farming the