If this man Holbrook were indeed a friend of Sir David Forster's, how
did it happen that John Saltram had failed to recognize his name? The
intimacy between Forster and Saltram was of such old standing, that it
seemed scarcely likely that any acquaintance of Sir David's could be
completely unknown to the other. Were they all united in treachery
against him? Had his chosen friend--the man he loved so well--been able
to enlighten him, and had he coldly withheld his knowledge? No, he told
himself, that was not possible. Sir David Forster might be the falsest,
most unprincipled of mankind; but he could not believe John Saltram
capable of baseness, or even coldness, towards him.

He was at the end of his journey by this time. The Grange stood in front
of him--a great rambling building, with many gables, gray lichen-grown
walls, and quaint old diamond-paned casements in the upper stories.
Below, the windows were larger, and had an Elizabethan look, with patches
of stained glass here and there. The house stood back from the road, with
a spacious old-fashioned garden before it; a garden with flower-beds of a
Dutch design, sheltered from adverse winds by dense hedges of yew and
holly; a pleasant old garden enough, one could fancy, in summer weather.
The flower-beds were for the most part empty now, and the only flowers to
be seen were pale faded-looking chrysanthemums and Michaelmas daises. The
garden was surrounded by a high wall, and Gilbert contemplated it first
through the rusty scroll-work of a tall iron gate, surmounted by the arms
and monogram of the original owner. On one side of the house there was a
vast pile of building, comprising stables and coach-houses, barns and
granaries, arranged in a quadrangle. The gate leading into this
quadrangle was open, and Gilbert saw the cattle standing knee-deep in a
straw-yard.

He rang a bell, which had a hoarse rusty sound, as if it had not been