autocracy which succeeded perfectly on the Craven estates and was
the envy of other agents, who had not his ability to do likewise.
Well born, original and fearless he was popular in castle and in
cottage, and his advice was respected by all. He neither sought
nor abused a confidence, and in consequence was the depository of
most of the secrets of the countryside. To his sympathetic ears
came both grave offences and minor indiscretions, as to a kindly
safety-valve who advised and helped--and was subsequently silent.
His exoneration was considered final. "I confessed to Peter"
became a recognised formula, instituted by a giddy young
Marchioness at the north end of the county, whose cousin he was.
And there, invariably, the matter ended. And for Craven it was the
one bright spot in the darkness before him. Life was going to be
hell--but there would always be Peter.

At the Convent gates the taxi skidded badly at the suddenly
applied brakes, and then backed jerkily into position. Craven felt
an overwhelming inclination to take to his heels. The portress who
admitted him had evidently received orders, for she silently
conducted him to a waiting room and left him alone. It was
sparsely furnished but had on the walls some fine old rosewood
panelling. The narrow heavily leaded windows overlooked a paved
quadrangle, glistening with moisture. For a few moments the rain
had ceased but drops still pattered sharply on to the flagstones
from the branches of two large chestnut trees. The outlook was
melancholy and he turned from the window, shivering. But the
chill austere room was hardly more inspiring. The atmosphere was
strange to him. It was a world apart from anything that had ever
touched him. He marvelled suddenly at the countless lives living
out their allotted span in the confined area of these and similar