Fifteen years of married life had passed over the heads of the Duke and Duchess of Hereward.

The duchess at thirty-five was still a very beautiful woman, a reigning belle, a leader of fashion, a queen of society.

The duke at sixty-five was still a very handsome, stately and commanding old gentleman, with hair and beard as white as snow.  He was a great political power in the House of Lords.  Their son, the young Marquis of Arondelle, was a fine boy of fourteen.

It was very early summer in London.  Parliament was in session, and the season was at its height.

The Duke and Duchess of Hereward were established in their magnificent town-house in Piccadilly.

The Marquis of Arondelle was pursuing his studies at Eton.

A memorable day was at hand for the duke.

It was the morning of the first of June—­a rarely brilliant and beautiful day for London.

The duchess had gone down to a garden party at Buckingham Palace.

The duke sat alone in his sumptuous library, whose windows overlooked the luxuriant garden, then in its fullest bloom and fragrance.

The windows were open, admitting the fine, fresh air of summer, perfumed with the aroma of numberless flowers, and musical with the songs of many birds.

The duke sat in a comfortable reading-chair, with an open book on its rotary ledge.  He was not reading.  The charm of external nature, appealing equally to sense and sentiment, won him from his mental task, and soothed him into a delicious reverie, during which he sat simply resting, breathing, gazing, luxuriating in the lovely life around him.

In the midst of this clear sky a thunderbolt fell.

A discreet footman rapped softly, and being told to enter, glided into the room, bearing a card upon a tiny silver tray, which he brought to his master.

The duke took it, languidly glanced at it, knit his brows, and took up his reading-glass and examined it closely.  No! his eyes had not deceived him.  The card bore the name:  ARCHBALD A. J. SCOTT.

“Who brought this?” inquired the duke.

“A young gentleman, sir,” respectfully answered the footman.

“Where is he?”

“I showed him into the blue reception room, your grace.”

The duke paused a moment, gazing at the card, and then abruptly demanded: 

“What is the young man like?”

“Most genteel, your grace; most like our young lord, and about his age, and dressed in the deepest mourning, your grace; and most particular anxious to see your grace.”

“I do not know the boy at all; do not know where he came from, nor what he wants; but he bears the family name, and looks like Arondelle,” mused the duke, gazing at the card and knitting his brow.

“I will see the young man.  Show him up here,” at length he said, abruptly.

The footman bowed and withdrew.