through the fantastic iron gate of the courtyard, and with a fine
swinging sweep and a jerk, we drew up handsomely before the door-steps,
with the Wylder arms in bold and florid projection carved above it.

The sun had just gone down. The blue shadows of twilight overcast the
landscape, and the mists of night were already stealing like thin smoke
among the trunks and roots of the trees. Through the stone mullions of
the projecting window at the right, a flush of fire-light looked pleasant
and hospitable, and on the threshold were standing Lord Chelford and my
old friend Mark Wylder; a faint perfume of the mildest cheroot declared
how they had been employed.

So I jumped to the ground and was greeted very kindly by the smokers.

'I'm here, you know, _in loco parentis_;--my mother and I keep watch and
ward. We allow Wylder, you see, to come every day to his devotions. But
you are not to go to the Brandon Arms--you got my note, didn't you?'

I had, and had come direct to the Hall in consequence.

I looked over the door. Yes, my memory had served me right. There were
the Brandon arms, and the Brandon quartered with the Wylder; but the
Wylder coat in the centre, with the grinning griffins for supporters, and
flaunting scrolls all round, and the ominous word 'resurgam' underneath,
proclaimed itself sadly and vauntingly over the great entrance. I often
wonder how the Wylder coat came in the centre; who built the old house--a
Brandon or a Wylder; and if a Wylder, why was it Brandon Hall?

Dusty and seedy somewhat, as men are after a journey, I chatted with Mark
and the noble peer for a few minutes at the door, while my valise and _et