fer, he admitted the fact to himself, like a clear-headed man, and
waited as he would have done in the presence of a man with six legs.

At this moment the stout old man with white whiskers looked up, and
the watering can fell from his hand, shooting a swirl of water down the
gravel path.

"Who on earth are you?" he gasped, trembling violently.

"I am Major Brown," said that individual, who was always cool in the
hour of action.

The old man gaped helplessly like some monstrous fish. At last he
stammered wildly, "Come down--come down here!"

"At your service," said the Major, and alighted at a bound on the grass
beside him, without disarranging his silk hat.

The old man turned his broad back and set off at a sort of waddling run
towards the house, followed with swift steps by the Major. His guide
led him through the back passages of a gloomy, but gorgeously appointed
house, until they reached the door of the front room. Then the old man
turned with a face of apoplectic terror dimly showing in the twilight.

"For heaven's sake," he said, "don't mention jackals."

Then he threw open the door, releasing a burst of red lamplight, and ran
downstairs with a clatter.

The Major stepped into a rich, glowing room, full of red copper, and
peacock and purple hangings, hat in hand. He had the finest manners in
the world, and, though mystified, was not in the least embarrassed to
see that the only occupant was a lady, sitting by the window, looking
out.

"Madam," he said, bowing simply, "I am Major Brown."

"Sit down," said the lady; but she did not turn her head.

She was a graceful, green-clad figure, with fiery red hair and a flavour
of Bedford Park. "You have come, I suppose," she said mournfully, "to
tax me about the hateful title-deeds."

"I have come, madam," he said, "to know what is the matter. To know why
my name is written across your garden. Not amicably either."

He spoke grimly, for the thing had hit him. It is impossible to describe
the effect produced on the mind by that quiet and sunny garden scene,
the frame for a stunning and brutal personality. The evening air was
still, and the grass was golden in the place where the little flowers he
studied cried to heaven for his blood.

"You know I must not turn round," said the lady; "every afternoon till
the stroke of six I must keep my face turned to the street."

Some queer and unusual inspiration made the prosaic soldier resolute to
accept these outr