idea for a plot that any author could desire. But it was not of
T. X. that John Lexman thought as he breasted the hill, on the
slope of which was the tiny habitation known by the somewhat
magnificent title of Beston Priory.

It was the interview he had had with the Greek on the previous day
which filled his mind, and he frowned as he recalled it. He
opened the little wicket gate and went through the plantation to
the house, doing his best to shake off the recollection of the
remarkable and unedifying discussion he had had with the
moneylender.

Beston Priory was little more than a cottage, though one of its
walls was an indubitable relic of that establishment which a pious
Howard had erected in the thirteenth century. A small and
unpretentious building, built in the Elizabethan style with quaint
gables and high chimneys, its latticed windows and sunken gardens,
its rosary and its tiny meadow, gave it a certain manorial
completeness which was a source of great pride to its owner.

He passed under the thatched porch, and stood for a moment in the
broad hallway as he stripped his drenching mackintosh.

The hall was in darkness. Grace would probably be changing for
dinner, and he decided that in his present mood he would not
disturb her. He passed through the long passage which led to the
big study at the back of the house. A fire burnt redly in the
old-fashioned grate and the snug comfort of the room brought a
sense of ease and re-lief. He changed his shoes, and lit the
table lamp.