Fifty years before, Sir Beverley had stood at that same window waiting and listening in the spring twilight for the beloved footfall of the woman who was never again to enter his house.  They had had a disagreement, he had spoken harshly, he had been foolishly, absurdly jealous; for her wonderful beauty, her quick, foreign charm drew all the world.  But, returning from a long ride that had lasted all day, he had entered with the desire to make amends, to win her sweet and gracious forgiveness.  She had forgiven him before.  She had laughed with a sweet, elusive mockery and passed the matter by as of no importance.  It had seemed a foregone conclusion that she would forgive him again, would reassure him, and set his mind at rest.  But he had come back to an empty house—­every door gaping wide and the beloved presence gone.

So he had waited for her, expecting her every moment, refusing to believe the truth that nevertheless had forced itself upon him at the last.  So now he waited for her grandson—­the boy with her beauty, her quick and generous charm, her passionate, emotional nature—­to come back to him.  And yet again he waited in vain.

Piers had gone forth in fierce anger, driven by that devil that had descended to him through generations of stiff-necked ancestors; and for the first time in all his hot young life he had not returned repentant.

“I treated him like a dog, egad,” murmured Sir Beverley into the shielding hand.  “But he’ll come back.  He always comes back, the scamp.”

But the minutes crawled by, the night-wind rustled and passed; and still Piers did not come.

It was hard on midnight when Sir Beverley suddenly raised both hands to his mouth and sent a shrill, peculiar whistle through them across the quiet garden.  It had been his special call for Piers in his childhood.  Even as he sent it out into the darkness, he seemed to see the sturdy, eager little figure that had never failed to answer that summons with delight racing headlong towards him over the dim, dewy lawn.

But to-night it brought no answer though he repeated it again and yet again; and as twelve o’clock struck heavily upon the stillness he turned from the window and groaned aloud.  The boy had gone, gone for good, as he might have known he would go.  He had driven him forth with blows and bitter words, and it was out of his power to bring him back again.

Slowly he crossed the room and rang the bell.  He was very cold, and he shivered as he moved.

It was Victor who answered the summons, Victor with round, vindictive eyes that openly accused him for a moment, and then softened inexplicably and looked elsewhere.

“You ask me for Monsieur Pierre?” he said, spreading out his hands, “Mais—­”

“I didn’t ask for anything,” growled Sir Beverley.  “I rang the bell to tell you and all the other fools to lock up and go to bed.”

“But—­me!” ejaculated Victor, rolling his eyes upwards in astonishment.