Peter fetched his tray into the dining-room, and had just touched a match to the spirit kettle, when a motor-car honked outside his gate.

Peter’s house was at some distance from the nearest neighbour’s, and fancying this must be a complete stranger to have gotten so far off the beaten track as to come down this short street which was nothing but a road ending at the cove, he went to his door prepared to give such directions as might be required.

Somebody grunted, and climbed out of the car.  In the glare of the lamps Peter made out a man as tall as himself, in a linen duster that came to his heels, and with an automobile cap and goggles concealing most of his face.  The stranger jerked the gate open, and a moment later Peter was confronting the goggled eyes.

“Are you,” said a pleasant voice, “by good fortune, Peter Champneys?”

“Well,” said Peter, truthfully, “I can’t say anything about the good fortune of it, but I’m Peter Champneys.”

The stranger paused for a moment.  He said in a changed tone:  “I have come three thousand miles to have a look at and a talk with you.”

“Come in,” said Peter, profoundly astonished, “and do it.”  And he stepped aside.

His guest shook himself out of dust-coat and goggles and stood revealed an old man in a linen suit—­a tall, thin, brown, very distinguished-looking old man, with a narrow face, a drooping white mustache, bushy eyebrows, a big nose, and a pair of fine, melancholy brown eyes.  He stared at Peter devouringly, and Peter stared back at him quite as interestedly.

“Peter Champneys:  Peter Devereaux Champneys, I have come across the continent to see you.  Well!  Here you are—­and here I am.  Have you the remotest idea who I am? what my name is?” Peter shook his head apologetically.  He hadn’t the remotest idea.  Yet there was something vaguely familiar in the tanned old face, some haunting likeness to somebody, that puzzled him.

“My name,” said the old gentleman, “is Champneys—­Chadwick Champneys.  Your father used to call me Chad, when we were boys together.  I’m his brother—­and your uncle, Nephew—­and glad to make your acquaintance.  I’ll take it for granted you’re as pleased to make mine.  Now that I see you clearly, let me add that if I met your skin on a bush in the middle of the Sahara desert, I’d know it for a Champneys hide.  Particularly the beak.  You look like me.”  Peter stared.  It was quite true:  he did resemble Chadwick Champneys.  The two shook hands.

“But, Uncle Chad—­Why, we thought—­Well, sir, you see, we heard you were dead.”

“Yes.  I heard so myself,” said Uncle Chad, serenely.  “In the meantime, may I ask you for a bite?  I’m somewhat hungry.”

Peter set another plate for his guest, and brewed tea, and the two drew up to the table.  Emma Campbell had provided an excellent meal, and Mr. Chadwick Champneys plied an excellent knife and fork, remarking that when all was said and done one South Carolina nigger was worth six French chefs, and that he hadn’t eaten anything so altogether satisfactory for ages.