“Poor Lady Carfax!” Dot said again.  “Yes, I’ll come.  I know Dad wouldn’t mind!”

So Bertie had his desire and turned the motor with a light heart towards Baronmead.  He sang as he drove, sang at the top of his voice; for he was in a happy mood that evening.

And Dot was happy too, though a little nervous.  She had often longed to go to Baronmead, and she was already thoroughly at her ease with the master thereof, who sat and conversed beside her in that rather monotonous, tired drawl of his.  It was only the thought of Anne that made her nervous.  Warmly as she admired her, she was ever so slightly afraid of the stately lady of the Manor, who made friends with so few and for all her queenly graciousness kept those she had at so discreet a distance.  Of course everyone knew why.  The reason was plain to all who had eyes to see.  But that fact did not help any to overstep the barrier, nor did it keep the majority from being affronted.  Dot was not of the latter, but she was ever shy in Anne’s presence, though it was more the fear of hurting than of being hurt that made her so.

She enjoyed the brisk run to Baronmead with all her healthy soul.  As they sped up the long drive they were joined by a galloping horseman, who shouted to Bertie to put on speed and flogged his animal furiously when the car drew ahead.  He looked like a demon to Dot in the half-light—­a black imp mounted on a black mare riding to perdition.  She was glad to leave him behind.

But as they drew up before the great house that loomed gaunt and eerie in the gathering darkness the galloping hoofs drew near again, and before they were out of the car Nap was beside them.

He flung himself out of the saddle, with a curt, “Here, Bertie!  Take the brute for me.  Mind her teeth!  She’s in a vile temper.”

“What a beast you are!” was Bertie’s comment, as he went to the panting animal.

The valet, Hudson, was waiting to help his master out of the car, but Nap pushed him imperiously aside.  His quick, lithe movements fascinated Dot.  She stood and watched him as he dexterously assisted the heavy, misshapen figure of his brother to alight.  He was wonderfully strong for so slight a man.  He seemed compacted of muscle and energy, welded together with a certain fiery grace that made him in some fashion remarkable.  He was utterly different from any other man she had ever seen.

“Will you go first, Miss Waring?” It was Lucas Errol’s voice.  He leaned on his brother’s shoulder, waiting for her.

Nap glanced round at her.  She saw his ironical smile for an instant.  “Miss Waring prefers to wait for Bertie, perhaps,” he remarked.

The words stung her, she scarcely knew why, and what had been a half-reluctant prejudice before turned to sudden hot antagonism in Dot’s heart.  She hated Nap Errol from that moment.

But Lucas laid a quiet hand on her arm, and her resentment died.