“Who is he?” he exclaimed.

“He is not known to a soul.  He came here a stranger.”

“But—­he was not here when I left home.  And I left it, you may remember, only a few days before that night.”

“He must have come here at that very time, sir; just as you left.”

“But what grounds were there for supposing that he—­that he—­I think you must be mistaken, Mrs. Capper.  Lord Hartledon, I am sure, knows nothing of this suspicion.”

“I never heard nothing about grounds, sir,” simply replied the woman.  “I suppose folks fastened it on him because he’s a loose character:  and his face is all covered with hair, like a howl.”

He almost laughed again as he turned away, dismissing the suspicion she had hinted at as unworthy a moment’s credit.  The broad gravel-walk through this portion of the park was very short, and the large grey-stone house was soon reached.  Not to the stately front entrance did he bend his steps, but to a small side entrance, which he found open.  Pursuing his way down sundry passages, he came to what used to be called the “west kitchen;” and there sat three women at breakfast.

“Well, Mirrable!  I thought I should find you up.”

The two servants seated opposite stared with open mouths; neither knew him:  the one he had addressed as Mirrable turned at the salutation, screamed, and dropped the teapot.  She was a thin, active woman, of forty years, with dark eyes, a bunch of black drooping ringlets between her cap and her thin cheeks, a ready tongue and a pleasant manner.  Mirrable had been upper maid at Hartledon for years and years, and was privileged.

“Mr. Percival!  Is it your ghost, sir?”

“I think it’s myself, Mirrable.”

“My goodness!  But, sir, how did you get here?”

“You may well ask.  I ought to have been here last night, but got out at some obscure junction to obtain a light for my cigar, and the train went on without me.  I sat on a bench for a few hours, and came on by the goods train this morning.”

Mirrable awoke from her astonishment, sent the two girls flying, one here, one there, to prepare rooms for Mr. Elster, and busied herself arranging the best breakfast she could extemporise.  Val Elster sat on a table whilst he talked to her.  In the old days, he and his brothers, little fellows, had used to carry their troubles to Mirrable; and he was just as much at home with her now as he would have been with his mother.

“Did Capper see you as you came by, sir?  Wouldn’t she be struck!”

“Nearly into stone,” he laughed.

Mirrable disappeared for a minute or two, and came back with a silver coffee-pot in her hand.  The name of the lodge-keeper had brought to his remembrance the unpleasant hint she mentioned, and he spoke of it impulsively—­as he did most things.

“Mirrable, what man is it they call Pike, who has taken possession of that old shed?”