During the next half-hour, Hamel was introduced to luxuries to which, in a general way, he was entirely unaccustomed. One man-servant was busy preparing his bath in a room leading out of his sleeping apartment, while another brought him a choice of evening clothes and superintended his disrobing. Hamel, always observant, studied his surroundings with keen interest. He found himself in a queerly mixed atmosphere of luxurious modernity and stately antiquity. His four-poster, the huge couch at the foot of his bed, and all the furniture about the room, was of the Queen Anne period. The bathroom which communicated with his apartment was the latest triumph of the plumber's art - a room with floor and walls of white tiles, the bath itself a little sunken and twice the ordinary size.
He dispensed so far as he could with the services of the men and descended, as soon as he was dressed, into the hall. Meekins was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, dressed now in somber black.
"Mr. Fentolin will be glad if you will step into his room, sir," he announced, leading the way.
Mr. Fentolin was seated in his chair, reading the Times in a corner of his library. Shaped blocks had been placed behind and in front of the wheels of his little vehicle, to prevent it from moving. A shaded reading-lamp stood on the table by his side. He did not at once look up, and Hamel glanced around with genuine admiration.
The shelves which lined the walls and the winged cases which protruded into the room were filled with books. There was a large oak table with beautifully carved legs, piled with all sorts of modern reviews and magazines. A log fire was burning in the big oaken grate. The perfume from a great bowl of lavender seemed to mingle curiously yet pleasantly with the half musty odour of the old leather-hound volumes. The massive chimneypiece was of black oak, and above it were carved the arms of the House of Fentolin.
The walls were oak-panelled to the ceiling.
"Refreshed, I hope, by your bath and change, my dear visitor?" the head of the house remarked, as he laid down his paper. "Draw a chair up here and join me in a glass of vermouth. You need not be afraid of it. It comes to me from the maker as a special favour.
Hamel accepted a quaintly-cut wine-glass full of the amber liquid.
Mr. Fentolin sipped his with the air of a connoisseur.
"This," he continued, "is one of our informal days. There is no one in the house save my sister-in-law, niece, and nephew, and a poor invalid gentleman who, I am sorry to say, is confined to his bed. My sister-in-law is also, I regret to say, indisposed. She desired me to present her excuses to you and say how greatly she is looking forward to making your acquaintance during the next few days."
Hamel bowed.
"It is very kind of Mrs. Fentolin," he murmured.
"On these occasions," Mr. Fentolin continued, "we do not make use of a drawing-room. My niece will come in here presently. You are looking at my books, I see. Are you, by any chance, a bibliophile?
I have a case of manuscripts here which might interest you.
Hamel shook his head.
"Only in the abstract, I fear," he answered. "I have scarcely opened a serious book since I was at Oxford."
"What was your year?" Mr. Fentolin asked.
"Fourteen years ago I left Magdalen," Hamel replied. "I had made up my mind to he an engineer, and I went over to the Boston Institute of Technology."
Mr. Fentolin nodded appreciatively.
"A magnificent profession," he murmured. "A healthy one, too, I should judge from your appearance. You are a strong man, Mr. Hamel."
"I have had reason to be," Hamel rejoined. "During nearly the whole of the time I have been abroad, I have been practically pioneering.
Building railways in the far West, with gangs of Chinese and Italians and Hungarians and scarcely a foreman who isn't terrified of his job, isn't exactly drawing-room work."
"You are going back there?" Mr. Fentolin asked, with interest.
Hamel shook his head.
"I have no plans," he declared. "I have been fortunate enough, or shall I some day say unfortunate enough, I wonder, to have inherited a large legacy."
Mr. Fentolin smiled.
"Don't ever doubt your good fortune," he said earnestly. "The longer I live - and in my limited way I do see a good deal of life - the more I appreciate the fact that there isn't anything in this world that compares with the power of money. I distrust a poor man.
He may mean to be honest, but he is at all times subject to temptation. Ah! here is my niece.
Mr. Fentolin turned towards the door. Hamel rose at once to his feet. His surmise, then, had been correct. She was coming towards them very quietly. In her soft grey dinner-gown, her brown hair smoothly brushed back, a pearl necklace around her long, delicate neck, she seemed to him a very exquisite embodiment of those memories which he had been carrying about throughout the afternoon.
"Here, Mr. Hamel," his host said, " is a member of my family who has been a deserter for a short time. This is Mr. Richard Hamel, Esther; my niece, Miss Esther Fentolin."
She held out her hand with the faintest possible smile, which might have been of greeting or recognition.
"I travelled for some distance in the train with Mr. Hamel this afternoon, I think," she remarked.
"Indeed?" Mr. Fentolin exclaimed. "Dear me, that is very interesting - very interesting, indeed! Mr. Hamel, I am sure, did not tell you of his destination?"
He watched them keenly. Hamel, though he scareely understood, was quick to appreciate the possible significance of that tentative question.
"We did not exchange confidences," he observed. "Miss Fentolin only changed into my carriage during the last few minutes of her journey. Besides," he continued, "to tell you the truth, my ideas as to my destination were a little hazy. To come and look for some queer sort of building by the side of the sea, which has been unoccupied for a dozen years or so, scarcely seems a reasonable quest, does it?"
"Scarcely, indeed," Mr. Fentolin assented. "You may thank me, Mr.
