CHAPTER I

A STRONG APPEAL

It was evening of early summer. George Lansing sat by a window of the
library at Brantholme. The house belonged to his cousin; and George,
having lately reached it after traveling in haste from Norway, awaited
the coming of Mrs. Sylvia Marston in an eagerly expectant mood. It was
characteristic of him that his expression conveyed little hint of his
feelings, for George was a quiet, self-contained man; but he had not
been so troubled by confused emotions since Sylvia married Marston
three years earlier. Marston had taken her to Canada; but now he was
dead, and Sylvia, returning to England, had summoned George, who had
been appointed executor of her husband's will.

Outside, beyond the broad sweep of lawn, the quiet English countryside
lay bathed in the evening light: a river gleaming in the foreground,
woods clothed in freshest verdure, and rugged hills running back
through gradations of softening color into the distance. Inside, a ray
of sunlight stretched across the polished floor, and gleams of
brightness rested on the rows of books and somber paneling. Brantholme
was old, but modern art had added comfort and toned down its austerity;
and George, fresh from the northern snow peaks, was conscious of its
restful atmosphere.

In the meanwhile, he was listening for a footstep. Sylvia, he had been