with a party. Had gone on to the Castle. A party from Tonbridge it was.”
Barnhurst Castle is close to Sefton Manor. The inn lays itself out to entertain persons who come in brakes and carve their names on the walls of the Castle keep. The inn has a visitors’ book. I examined it. Some twenty feminine names. Any one might be hers. The waiter looked over my shoulder. I turned the pages.
“Only parties staying in the house in this part of the book,” said the waiter.
My eye caught one name. “Selwyn Sefton,” in a clear, round, black hand-writing.
“Staying here?” I pointed to the name.
“Yes, sir; came to-day, sir.”
“Can I have a private sitting-room?”
I had one. I ordered my dinner to be served in it, and I sat down and considered my course of action. Should I invite my cousin Selwyn to dinner, ply him with wine, and exact promises? Honour forbade. Should I seek him out and try to establish friendly relations? To what end?
Then I saw from my window a young man in a light-checked suit, with a face at once pallid and coarse. He strolled along the
