The manor of Chadlands extended to some fifty thousand acres lying in a river valley between the heights of Haldon on the east and the frontiers of Dartmoor westerly.  The little township was connected by a branch with the Great Western Railway, and the station lay five miles from the manor house.  No more perfect parklands, albeit on a modest scale, existed in South Devon, and the views of the surrounding heights and great vale opening from the estate caused pleasure alike to those contented with obvious beauty and the small number of spectators who understood the significance of what constitutes really distinguished landscape.

Eastward, long slopes of herbage and drifts of azaleas—­a glorious harmony of gold, scarlet, and orange in June—­sloped upwards to larch woods; while the gardens of pleasure, watered by a little trout stream, spread beneath the manor house, and behind it rose hot-houses and the glass and walled gardens of fruit and vegetables.  To the south and west opened park and vale, where receded forest and fallow lands, until the grey ramparts of the moor ascending beyond them hemmed in the picture.

Sir Walter Lennox had devoted himself to the sporting side of the estate and had made it famous in this respect.  His father, less interested in shooting and hunting, had devoted time and means to the flower gardens, and rendered them as rich as was possible in his day; while earlier yet, Sir Walter’s grandfather had been more concerned for the interior, and had done much to enrich and beautify it.

A great terrace stretched between the south front and a balustrade of granite, that separated it from the gardens spreading at a lower level.  Here walked Henry Lennox and sought Tom May.  It was now past eight o’clock on Sunday morning, and he found himself alone.  The sun, breaking through heaviness of morning clouds, had risen clear of Haldon Hills and cast a radiance, still dimmed by vapour, over the glow of the autumn trees.  Subdued sounds of birds came from the glades below, and far distant, from the scrub at the edge of the woods, pheasants were crowing.  The morning sparkled, and, in a scene so fair, Henry found his spirits rise.  Already the interview with Mary’s husband on the preceding night seemed remote and unreal.  He was, however, conscious that he had made an ass of himself, but he did not much mind, for it could not be said that May had shone, either.

He called him, and, for reply, an old spaniel emerged from beneath, climbed a flight of broad steps that ascended to the terrace, and paddled up to Henry, wagging his tail.  He was a very ancient hero, whose record among the wild duck still remained a worthy memory and won him honour in his declining days.  The age of “Prince” remained doubtful, but he was decrepit now—­gone in the hams and suffering from cataract of both eyes—­a disease to which it is impossible to minister in a dog.  But his life was good to him; he still got about, slept in the sun, and shared the best his master’s dish could offer.  Sir Walter adored him, and immediately felt uneasy if the creature did not appear when summoned.  Often, had he been invisible too long, his master would wander whistling round his haunts.  Then he would find him, or be himself found, and feel easy again.