come for. Nobody wants 'em."

The traveller laughed; but put no further questions. Remembering somewhat
of Mr. Jones's propensity in the old days, he thought perhaps something
besides children and opposition had had to do with the downfall. He stood
for a moment looking at the station which had not been completed when he
last saw it--and a very pretty station it was, surrounded by its gay
flowerbeds--and then went down the road.

"I suppose he is one of the Hartledon family, Jones?" said the
station-master, looking after him.

"He's the earl's brother," replied Mr. Jones, relapsing into sulkiness.
"There's only them two left; t'other died. Wonder if they be coming to
Hartledon again? Calne haven't seemed the same since they left it."

"Which is this one?"

"He can't be anybody but himself," retorted Mr. Jones, irascibly, deeming
the question superfluous. "There be but the two left, I say--the earl and
him; everybody knows him for the Honourable Percival Elster. The other
son, George, died; leastways, was murdered."

"Murdered!" echoed the station-master aghast.

"I don't see that it could be called much else but murder," was Mr.
Jones's answer. "He went out with my lord's gamekeepers one night and
got shot in a poaching fray. 'Twas never known for certain who fired the
shot, but I think I could put my finger on the man if I tried. Much good
_that_ would do, though! There's no proof."