The walk was beautiful indeed along the top of the precipitous red sandstone cliffs, with the deep, dark pools of the Coquet sleeping far below.  Now and then a heron poised, or a rock pigeon flew by, between the river and the cliff-top.  The opposite bank was embowered in deep green wood, and the place was very refreshing after the torrid bricks and distressing odours of the July streets of London.

The path was narrow:  there was room for only two abreast.  Miss Willoughby and Scremerston led the way, and were soon lost to sight by a turn in the path.  As for Lord Embleton, he certainly seemed to have drunk of that fountain of youth about which the old French poet Pontus de Tyard reports to us, and to be going back, not forward, in age.  He looked very neat, slim, and cool, but that could not be the only cause of the miracle of rejuvenescence.  Closely regarding his host in profile, Logan remarked that he had shaved off his moustache and the little, obsolete, iron-grey chin-tuft which, in moments of perplexity, he had been wont to twiddle.  Its loss was certainly a very great improvement to the clean-cut features of this patrician.

‘We are a very small party,’ said Lord Embleton, ’only the Prince, my daughter, Father Riccoboni, Miss Willoughby, my sister, Scremerston, and you and I. Miss Willoughby came last week.  In the mornings she and I are busy with the manuscripts.  We have found most interesting things.  When their plot failed, your ancestor and mine prepared a ship to start for the Western seas and attack the treasure-ships of Spain.  But peace broke out, and they never achieved that adventure.  Miss Willoughby is a cousin well worth discovering, so intelligent, and so wonderfully attractive.’

‘So Scremerston seems to think,’ was Logan’s idea, for the further he and the Earl advanced, the less, if possible, they saw of the pair in front of them; indeed, neither was visible again till the party met before dinner.

However, Logan only said that he had a great esteem for Miss Willoughby’s courage and industry through the trying years of poverty since she left St. Ursula’s.

‘The Prince we have not seen very much of,’ said the Earl, ’as is natural; for you will be glad to know that everything seems most happily arranged, except so far as the religious difficulty goes.  As for Father Riccoboni, he is a quiet intelligent man, who passes most of his time in the library, but makes himself very agreeable at meals.  And now here we are arrived.’

They had reached the south side of the house—­an eighteenth-century building in the red sandstone of the district, giving on a grassy terrace.  There the host’s maiden sister, Lady Mary Guevara, was seated by a tea-table, surrounded by dogs—­two collies and an Aberdeenshire terrier.  Beside her were Father Riccoboni, with a newspaper in his hand, Lady Alice, with whom Logan had already some acquaintance, and the Prince of Scalastro.  Logan was presented, and took quiet notes of the assembly, while the usual chatter about the weather and his journey got itself transacted, and the view of the valley of the Coquet had justice done to its charms.