outhouses. Fifty horses had passed through Tamfield the week before, so
that, large as were the preparations, they were not more than would be
needed. Who and what could this man be who spent his money with so
lavish a hand? His name was unknown. Birmingham was as ignorant as
Tamfield as to his origin or the sources of his wealth. Robert McIntyre
brooded languidly over the problem as he leaned against the gate,
puffing his blue clouds of bird's-eye into the crisp, still air.

Suddenly his eye caught a dark figure emerging from the Avenue gates and
striding up the winding road. A few minutes brought him near enough to
show a familiar face looking over the stiff collar and from under the
soft black hat of an English clergyman.

"Good-morning, Mr. Spurling."

"Ah, good-morning, Robert. How are you? Are you coming my way?
How slippery the roads are!"

His round, kindly face was beaming with good nature, and he took little
jumps as he walked, like a man who can hardly contain himself for
pleasure.

"Have you heard from Hector?"

"Oh, yes. He went off all right last Wednesday from Spithead, and he
will write from Madeira. But you generally have later news at Elmdene
than I have."

"I don't know whether Laura has heard. Have you been up to see the
new comer?"