"Some young loafer, pretending to be a barrister," said Melrose
contemptuously. "What's he doing here--in May? This is not the tourist
season. What business had he to be here at all? I have no doubt whatever
that he was drunk, otherwise why should he have had an accident? Nobody
else ever had an accident on that hill. Why should he, eh? Why should he?
And how the deuce are we to get at his relations?"

The nurse could only reply that she had no ideas on the subject, and had
hardly spoken when the sound of wheels outside brought a look of relief
to her face.

"That's the ice," she said, rejoicingly. "We sent for it to Pengarth this
afternoon."

And she fled on light steps to the front door.

"Sent whom? _My_ man--_My_ cart!" growled Melrose, following her, to
verify the outrage with his own eyes. And there indeed at the steps stood
the light cart, the only vehicle which the master of the Tower possessed,
driven by his only outdoor servant, Joe Backhouse, who had succeeded
Dixon as gardener. It was full of packages, which the nurse was eagerly
taking out, comparing them with a list she held in her hand.

"And of course I'm to pay for them!" thought Melrose furiously. No doubt
his credit has been pledged up to the hilt already for this intruder,
this beggar at his gates by these impertinent women. He stood there
watching every packet and bundle with which the nurse was loading her
strong arms, feeling himself the while an utterly persecuted and injured
being, the sport of gods and men; when the sight of a motor turning the