[Illustration: HIS FIRST ACT WAS TO DISCHARGE EVERY SERVANT]

He was now rich but broken in health, with bent shoulders, without a
friend on the earth. He was a man suspicious of all the world, and he
had a furtive look over his shoulder as if he expected Fate to deal him
a sudden blow--as indeed it did.

It was a beautiful June day, when there passed the porter's lodge and
walked up the avenue to the main entrance of the Hall a man whose face
was bronzed by a torrid sun. He requested speech with the master and
was asked into a room to wait.

At length David Allen shuffled in, with his bent shoulders, glaring at
the intruder from under his bushy eyebrows. The stranger rose as he
entered and extended his hand.

"You don't know me, of course. I believe we have never met before. I am
your cousin."

Allen ignored the outstretched hand.

"I have no cousin," he said.

"I am Bernard Heaton, the son of your uncle."

"Bernard Heaton is dead."

"I beg your pardon, he is not. I ought to know, for I tell you I am
he."