Douglas sombrely set himself to study the picture catalogue, and sat smoking and making notes till nearly midnight.  Having by that time accumulated a number of queries to which answers were required, he went in search of his father.  He found him in the drawing-room, still playing backgammon with Lady Laura.

“Oh Duggy, I’m so tired!” cried his mother plaintively, as soon as he appeared.  “And your father will go on.  Do come and take my place.”

Sir Arthur rose.

“No, no, dear—­we’ve had enough.  Many thanks.  If you only understood its points, backgammon is really an excellent game.  Well, Duggy, ready to go to bed?”

“When I’ve asked you a few questions, father.”

Lady Laura escaped, having first kissed her son with tearful eyes.  Sir Arthur checked a yawn, and tried to answer Douglas’s enquiries.  But very soon he declared that he had no more to say, and couldn’t keep awake.

Douglas watched him mounting the famous staircase of the house, with its marvellous rampe, bought under the Bourbon Restoration from one of the historic chateaux of France; and, suddenly, the young man felt his heart gripped.  Was that shrunken, stooping figure really his father?  Of course they must have M’Clintock at once—­and get him away—­to Scotland or abroad.

* * * * *

“The two gentlemen are in the red drawing-room, sir!” Douglas and his father were sitting together in the library, after lunch, on the following afternoon, when the butler entered.

“Damn them!” said Sir Arthur under his breath.  Then he got up, smiling, as the servant disappeared.  “Well, Duggy, now’s your chance.  I’m a brute not to come and help you, my boy.  But I’ve made such a mess of driving the family coach, you’d really better take a turn.  I shall go out for an hour.  Then you can come and report to me.”

Douglas went into the red drawing-room, one of the suite of rooms dating from the early seventeenth century which occupied the western front of the house.  As he entered, he saw two men at the farther end closely examining a large Constable, of the latest “palette-knife” period, which hung to the left of the fire-place.  One of the men was short, very stout, with a fringe of grey hair round his bald head, a pair of very shrewd and sparkling black eyes, a thick nose, full lips, and a double chin.  He wore spectacles, and was using in addition, a magnifying glass with which he was examining the picture.  Beside him stood a thin, slightly-bearded man, cadaverous in colour, who, with his hands in his pockets, was holding forth in a nonchalant, rather patronising voice.

Both of them turned at Douglas’s entrance, surveying the son of the house with an evident and eager curiosity.

“You are, I suppose, Mr. Douglas Falloden?” said the short man, speaking perfect English, though with a slight German accent.  “Your father is not able to see us?”