Dominey nodded.  “I had forgotten,” he muttered.

“We wrote you, by the by,” the lawyer continued, “suggesting the sale of one or two of the pictures, to form a fund for repairs, but thank goodness you didn’t reply!  We’ll have some workpeople here as soon as you’ve decided what you’d like done.  I’m afraid,” he added, as they turned in through some iron gates and entered the last sweep in front of the house, “you won’t find many familiar faces to welcome you.  There’s Loveybond, the gardener, whom you would scarcely remember, and Middleton, the head keeper, who has really been a godsend so far as the game is concerned.  No one at all indoors, except—­Mrs. Unthank.”

The car drew up at that moment in front of the great porch.  There was nothing in the shape of a reception.  They had even to ring the bell before the door was opened by a manservant sent down a few days previously from town.  In the background, wearing a brown velveteen coat, with breeches and leggings of corduroy, stood an elderly man with white side whiskers and skin as brown as a piece of parchment, leaning heavily upon a long ash stick.  Half a dozen maidservants, new importations, were visible in the background, and a second man was taking possession of the luggage.  Mr. Mangan took charge of the proceedings.

“Middleton,” he said, resting his hand upon the old man’s shoulder, “here’s your master come back again.  Sir Everard was very pleased to hear that you were still here; and you, Loveybond.”

The old man grasped the hand which Dominey stretched out with both of his.

“I’m right glad you’re back again, Squire,” he said, looking at him with curious intentness, “and yet the words of welcome stick in my throat.”

“Sorry you feel like that about it, Middleton,” Dominey said pleasantly.  “What is the trouble about my coming back?”

“That’s no trouble, Squire,” the old man replied.  “That’s a joy—­leastways to us.  It’s what it may turn out to be for you which makes one hold back like.”

Dominey drew himself more than ever erect—­a commanding figure in the little group.

“You will feel better about it when we have had a day or two with the pheasants, Middleton,” he said reassuringly.  “You have not changed much, Loveybond,” he added, turning to the man who had fallen a little into the background, very stiff and uncomfortable in his Sunday clothes.

“I thankee, Squire,” the latter replied a little awkwardly, with a motion of his hand towards his forehead.  “I can’t say the same for you, sir.  Them furrin parts has filled you out and hardened you.  I’ll take the liberty of saying that I should never have recognised you, sir, and that’s sure.”

“This is Parkins,” Mr. Mangan went on, pushing his way once more into the foreground, “the butler whom I engaged in London.  And—­”