If this man Holbrook were indeed a friend of Sir David Forster’s, how did it happen that John Saltram had failed to recognize his name?  The intimacy between Forster and Saltram was of such old standing, that it seemed scarcely likely that any acquaintance of Sir David’s could be completely unknown to the other.  Were they all united in treachery against him?  Had his chosen friend—­the man he loved so well—­been able to enlighten him, and had he coldly withheld his knowledge?  No, he told himself, that was not possible.  Sir David Forster might be the falsest, most unprincipled of mankind; but he could not believe John Saltram capable of baseness, or even coldness, towards him.

He was at the end of his journey by this time.  The Grange stood in front of him—­a great rambling building, with many gables, gray lichen-grown walls, and quaint old diamond-paned casements in the upper stories.  Below, the windows were larger, and had an Elizabethan look, with patches of stained glass here and there.  The house stood back from the road, with a spacious old-fashioned garden before it; a garden with flower-beds of a Dutch design, sheltered from adverse winds by dense hedges of yew and holly; a pleasant old garden enough, one could fancy, in summer weather.  The flower-beds were for the most part empty now, and the only flowers to be seen were pale faded-looking chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daises.  The garden was surrounded by a high wall, and Gilbert contemplated it first through the rusty scroll-work of a tall iron gate, surmounted by the arms and monogram of the original owner.  On one side of the house there was a vast pile of building, comprising stables and coach-houses, barns and granaries, arranged in a quadrangle.  The gate leading into this quadrangle was open, and Gilbert saw the cattle standing knee-deep in a straw-yard.

He rang a bell, which had a hoarse rusty sound, as if it had not been rung very often of late; and after he had waited for some minutes, and rung a second time, a countrified-looking woman emerged from the house, and came slowly along the wide moss-grown gravel-walk towards him.  She stared at him with the broad open stare of rusticity, and did not make any attempt to open the gate, but stood with a great key in her hand, waiting for Gilbert to speak.

“This is Sir David Forster’s house, I believe,” he said.

“Yes, sir, it be; but Sir David doesn’t live here.”

“I know that.  You have some lodgers here—­a lady and gentleman called Holbrook.”

He plunged at once at this assertion, as the easiest way of arriving at the truth.  He had a conviction that this solitary farm-house was the place to which his unknown rival had brought Marian.

“Yes, sir,” the woman answered, still staring at him in her Blow stupid way.  “Mrs. Holbrook is here, but Mr. Holbrook is away up in London.  Did you wish to see the lady?”

Gilbert’s heart gave a great throb.  She was here, close to him!  In the next minute he would be face to face with her, with that one woman whom he loved, and must continue to love, until the end of his life.