And why did he wear that half glove upon his right hand?  Finger stalls, wrist straps, even mittens were common enough, useful, and necessary at times; but the stranger’s glove was not a mitten, and it had no fellow for the left hand.  Perhaps, thought Desmond, it was a freak of the wearer’s, on a par with his red feather and his vivid neckcloth.  Desmond, as he walked on, found himself hoping that the visitor at the Four Alls would remain for a day or two.

After passing through the sleeping hamlet of Woods Eaves, he struck into a road on his left hand.  Twenty minutes’ steady plodding uphill brought him in sight of his home—­a large, ancient, rambling grange house lying back from the road.  It was now nearly ten o’clock, an hour when the household was usually abed; but the door of Wilcote Grange stood open, and a guarded candle in the hall threw a faint yellow light upon the path.  The gravel crunched under Desmond’s boots, and, as if summoned by the sound, a tall figure crossed the hall and stood in the entrance.  At the sight Desmond’s mouth set hard; his hands clenched; his breath came more quickly as he went forward.

“Where have you been, sirrah?” were the angry words that greeted him.

“Into the town, sir,” returned Desmond.

He had perforce to halt, the doorway being barred by the man’s broad form.

“Into the town?  You defy me, do you?  Did I not bid you remain at home and make up the stock book?”

“I did that before I left.”

“You did, did you?  I lay my life ’tis ill done.  What did you in the town this time o’ night?”

“I went to see General Clive.”

“Indeed!  You!  Hang me, what’s Clive to you?  Was you invited to the regale?  You was one of that stinking crowd, I suppose, that bawled in the street.  You go and herd with knaves and yokels, do you? and bring shame upon me, and set the countryside a-chattering of Richard Burke and his idle young oaf of a brother!  By gad, sir, I’ll whip you for this; I’ll give you something to remember General Clive by!”

He caught up a riding whip that stood in the angle of the doorway, and took Desmond by the shoulder.  The boy did not flinch.

“Whip me if you must,” he said quietly, “but don’t you think we’d better go outside?”

The elder, with an imprecation, thrust Desmond into the open, hauled him some distance down the path, and then beat him heavily about the shoulders.  He stood a foot higher, his arm was strong, his grip firm as a vise; resistance would have been vain; but Desmond knew better than to resist.  He bent to the cruel blows without a wince or a murmur.  Only, his face was very pale when, the bully’s arm being tired and his breath spent, he was flung away and permitted to stagger to the house.  He crawled painfully up the wainscoted staircase and into the dark corridor leading to his bedroom.  Halfway down this he paused, felt with his hand along the wall, and, discovering by this means that a door was ajar, stood listening.