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 owner, Clifford Byng, a few years before his death—which unkind people say she hastened; and that she has a stepson, Reginald. Give me time to mention these few facts and I am done. On the glorious past of the Marshmoretons I will not even touch.

Luckily the loss to literature is not irreparable. Lord Marshmoreton himself is engaged upon a history of the family, which will doubtless be on every bookshelf as soon as his lordship gets it finished. And as for the castle and its surroundings, including the model dairy and the amber drawing-room, you may see them for yourself any Thursday, when Belpher is thrown open to the public on payment of a fee of one shilling a head. The money is collected by Keggs, the butler, and goes to a worthy local charity. At least that is the idea; but the voice of calumny is never silent and there exists a school of thought, headed by Albert, the page boy, which holds that Keggs sticks to these shillings like glue and adds them to his already considerable savings in the Farmers and Merchants’ Bank on the left side of the High Street in Belpher village, next door to the Odd Fellows’ Hall.

With regard to this one can only say that Keggs looks far too much like a particularly saintly bishop to indulge in any such practices. On the other hand, Albert knows Keggs. We must leave the matter open.

Of course appearances are deceptive. Anyone, for instance, who had been standing outside the front entrance of the castle at eleven o’clock on a certain June morning might easily have made a mistake. Such a person would probably have jumped to the conclusion that the middle-aged lady of a determined