resembled his brother, Daniel, but stood three inches taller, and his
brow was fuller and loftier. His expression in repose appeared frank and
receptive; but to-day his face wore a look half anxious, half ferocious.
He was clad in tweed knickerbockers and a Norfolk jacket, of different
pattern but similar material. His tie was light blue and fastened with
a gold pin modelled in the shape of a hunting-horn. He bore no mark of
mourning whatever.

"Whiskey and soda, Gurd. Morning, Neddy."

He spoke defiantly, as though knowing his entrance was a challenge. Then
he flung himself down on a cushioned seat in the bow window of the
bar-room and took a pipe and tobacco pouch from his pocket.

Mr. Gurd brought the drink round to Raymond. He spoke upon some general
subject and pretended to no astonishment that the young man should be
here on this day. But the customer cut him short. There was only one
subject for discussion in his mind.

"I suppose you thought I should go to my father's funeral? No doubt,
you'll say, with everybody else, that it's a disgrace I haven't."

"I shall mind my own business and say nothing, Mister Raymond. It's your
affair, not ours."

"I'd have done the same, Ray, if I'd been treated the same," said Neddy
Motyer.

"It's a protest," explained Raymond Ironsyde. "To have gone, after being
publicly outraged like this in my father's will, was impossible to