Christopher flecked an imaginary speck of dust from the burnished metal of his car. He was all ready to start, but seeing a postman coming up the drive, waited to take down the latest delivery of letters, and as he waited a hansom drove up, and since his car occupied the portico, stopped at the side. A big form emerged with a jovial red face and wide shoulders. It was six years since Christopher had seen the man, but his name and personality and, above all, the antipathy with which he had formerly inspired him flashed with lightning vividness to his mind. Peter Masters glanced at Christopher with a momentary puzzled look and turned to ring the bell.

“If you want to see Mr. Aston, Mr. Masters, he is at Marden, and Aymer also. I’m just going down.”

“Ah.” The keen eyes searched him up and down. “I’ve seen you before; can’t place you, though; you aren’t Nevil’s boy.”

“No, I’m––” Christopher hardly knew why he changed the form of his answer, or that he had. “I’m the boy Aymer adopted. You saw me about six years ago.”

“Oh, I remember. Christopher Aston, they call you. You did not like me. What have you done with that clever head of yours, eh?”

Christopher carefully examined a nut on the car.

“Well, never mind. When will Cousin Charles be back?”

“Not until May if he can help it.”

“Not well?”

“Quite well, thank you.”

Peter Masters stood biting his lip and considering. 191 The footman brought out some letters which Christopher put in his pocket and then mounted.

“Can I take any message for you?” he asked politely.

“Are you going straight to Marden now?”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

Christopher devoutly hoped he was, but a sudden fear assailed him: he would not make the momentous journey in solitude. He answered somewhat indistinctly.

“You might run me down; I must see Cousin Charles.”

“I should warn you it is a new road to me and I’ve had my car nearly a year; it’s due to go wrong somehow, and I drive rather fast.”

“I expect you set sufficient value on your own life to insure mine.”

“It will be cold. You can’t ride in that thin coat.”

“You pass the Carlton; I’m staying there. It won’t delay us two minutes. What luck.”

He walked round and got into the car, oblivious of the trifling fact its owner had neither acquiesced nor expressed an enthusiasm over the luck.

“I hope he is nervous,” thought Christopher vindictively, “though there’s not much chance of it. He hasn’t much hair to stand on end, but I’ll do my best to make it.”

Peter Masters rolled himself contentedly in the spare rug. “Ready,” he said cheerfully.

Christopher, however, made no attempt to start. He beckoned to the footman.

“Fetch me the blue paper-covered book you’ll find on the second left-hand shelf of the low book-case in my room, Burton.”

He waited immovable while the man went on the errand, being quite determined to start unprompted by 192 Mr. Masters if he started at all. The old butler came out and acknowledged Mr. Masters’s presence with a deferential bow. He addressed himself to Christopher.

“Mr. Christopher, will you tell Mr. Aymer we’ve raised the Raphael in his room, as he said, four inches, but the paper is a little faded and it shows. What will he like us to do?”

Christopher nodded. “All right, I’ll tell him. I shall probably be up again next week.”

“We shall be glad to see you again, sir.”

Burton returned in indecorous hurry with the book. Christopher bade them good-bye in a friendly way and the car glided quietly down the drive out into the busy thoroughfare.

“You are quite at home there,” remarked Mr. Masters affably.

“It happens to be my home.”

It was a very busy hour and the driver of the car might reasonably be excused if he were silent. At all events if Mr. Masters spoke, Christopher did not hear him. They slipped in and out of the traffic, glided round corners, slid with smooth swiftness along free stretches of road, crept gingerly across a maze of cross-ways and drew up at the Carlton.

Peter Masters, who appreciated the situation and found humour in it, plunged into that Palace of Travellers and reappeared in an incredibly short time, coated for the occasion.

“Now,” he said cheerily, “we are ready for the fray—when you are ready, Master Christopher,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.

But Christopher’s ill-temper had evaporated with the short wait. After all, the man was Aymer’s cousin, and he couldn’t help being a brute, and if he really wanted to see St. Michael perhaps it was a piece of luck for him that the postman was late. So he 193 laughed and said a little shyly he hoped Mr. Masters would not mind his not talking till they were out of the streets.

“I shall expect conversation with compound interest,” returned the other good-humouredly.

He was, however, quite quiet until Christopher turned into a narrow back street.

“That’s not your best way,” said Peter Masters sharply.

“I’m going to call on a friend,” replied the driver without apology.

They threaded their way through a maze of small ill-looking streets, slowly enough, for there were children all over the road; not infrequently a big dray forced them to proceed backwards. Masters noted that Christopher never expected the legitimate traffic should give way to him. They emerged at last on a crowded thoroughfare of South London, where small shops elbowed big ones and windows blazed with preposterous advertisements. There were trams too, and scarcely room for the big car between rail and pavement. Presently they stopped before a prosperous-looking grocery store. A white-aproned man rushed out with undisguised complacency to wait on the fine equipage.

“I want to see Mr. Sartin if he’s free,” said Christopher, and waited quietly.

In a minute Sam was with them, white-aproned, pencil behind ear. To Masters’s amusement his companion greeted the young grocer with the familiarity of long friendship.

“I heard from Jessie the other day,” said Christopher when he had explained his appearance; “what about this man Cladsley? Is she going to marry him?”

Sam looked down the street, a little frown on his face. 194

“Jessie’d no business to write you. Cladsley’s all right. Don’t you worry about Jessie.”

“I’m not worrying,” laughed the other, “I only wanted to be sure it was suitable and all that.”

“I’ll look after Jessie.” The words were ungracious, but Sam looked worried and uncertain. “You’ve done enough for us.”

“You old dog in the manger,” persisted Christopher good-temperedly, “you’ll never let me do anything for Jessie, and, after all, it was she who used to take my part when you fought me, Master Sam, and wouldn’t let you bully me.”

Sam grinned. “Yes, it was always Jim that was in the right then. Don’t you bother. Cladsley’s a good sort if she would only make up her mind.”

“I gathered his job would be up soon and I thought I might find another for him if it’s all straight with them. That’s why I came to see you.”

Sam appeared still reluctant.

“It’s all beastly stuck-up pride on your part,” concluded Christopher after more argument. “I expect you’ll cut me next; you are getting too prosperous, Mr. Sartin.”

But they parted good friends, and the car re-threaded its way through the crowded streets out into a meaner, more deserted neighbourhood, till at length they emerged on a long empty straight road with small yellow brick houses on either side, as yet uninhabited.

“What’s the engaging young grocer’s name?” asked Masters abruptly.

“Sartin—Sam Sartin.”

“Known him long?”

“We were children together.”

“Relations, perhaps?”

“No.”

“Why did he call you Jim?” 195

“I used to be Jim.”

“James Aston?”

“No.”

“What then?”

“I’ve forgotten,” said Christopher very deliberately.

Mr. Masters laughed genially. “I like a good liar. You don’t want to tell me anything about yourself. Very likely you are wise, but all the same I am very curious to know all about you—who you are, and how you came to the Astons, and who was your mother, and when and where Aymer met her. You see,” he added confidentially, “I used to be about with Aymer a good bit and I thought I knew all––” He stopped abruptly. If he were being purposely tactless he realised he had gone far enough.

“I do not think Aymer ever met my mother. I am certain you haven’t. Mr. Aston used to know her, and suggested Aymer’s adopting me when he heard I was left stranded in a workhouse. I was just a workhouse boy. Now, are you satisfied as to my private history, sir?”

“No,” retorted the inquisitor good-humouredly as ever, “you must have had a father, you know.”

“It seems possible. I do not remember him.”

He began to resign himself to fate and this Juggernaut of a man who rolled other people’s feelings flat with no more compunction than a traction engine.

“Fathers are useful. You may want to remember, some-day.”

“I’m quite satisfied at present.”

“I’m not suggesting you have anything to complain of. Aymer doesn’t do things by halves. Christopher is as much a family name as Aston, for example.”

Something in his tone caught Christopher’s attention and he looked at him sharply. Peter Masters 196 was gazing straight before him with that same cynical smile on his face it had worn when Christopher was first introduced to him six years ago.

“I wonder why on earth they did that?” ruminated the Juggernaut. “Cousin Charles is capable of any unworldly folly, but Aymer was a man of the world once. It looks like colossal bluff.”

And then the meaning of all this swept over Christopher’s mind like a wave of fire, scorching his soul, desecrating and humiliating the very mainspring of his life.

Aymer’s son! He knew Masters believed it as surely as if he had blurted it out in his own unbearable way, and it was not to save him, it was from no sense of decency Masters had not said it audibly. Christopher longed to fling the unspoken lie back to him, to refuse the collaboration of detail that the passing minutes crowded on his notice. He put on speed; tried to outstrip the evil thought of it, to think only of CÆsar, the dear companion of his days, the steady friend, the unobtrusive mentor and guide. But a thought he could not outstrip slipped into his mind so insidiously and stealthily, he could not tell how or whence it came.

“You only know CÆsar; you never knew Aymer Aston of the silent past.”

Faster and faster rushed the car in futile attempt to outpace the whispered treason. The speed indicator stood at 40 and still mounted.

“I should like to remark,” said Peter Masters thoughtfully, “that I have not yet made my will and it would cause some inconvenience to a vast number of people to have several millions left masterless.”

“It’s an open road,” returned Christopher, “I know what I’m at. I expect I enjoy life as much as you do.”

He slowed down suddenly, however, to about twenty miles an hour to pass an old woman in a 197 donkey cart, and the hateful thought swept on in advance apparently, for he overtook it again when their speed ran up ten points.

Christopher had chosen a rather circuitous route which offered fewer villages than the general high-road. It was a glorious day, the banks were starry with primroses, and all the hedgerows, just bursting into green rosettes, were hunting ground for birds innumerable.

Green emerald grass in water-meadows, fresh green growth on the hillside, and red bud and green promise hung from every tree. The crisp air whispered warnings of frosts still to come, but braced the nerve and gladdened the heart nevertheless, and called imperiously to youth to seek its kingdom. Christopher was at no pains to spare the nerves of the master of millions, and though he invariably crept through villages and towns sedately and drove with an eye for crossroads and distant specks on the white track before him, they swept through the open country with a breathless rush.

How good it would have gone alone, Christopher thought savagely, and resentment rose high in his heart. He was going to meet Patricia for the first time with understanding eyes. In the past months his love had grown with steady insistence until the imperious voice of spring, singing in concord with it, had overridden the decision of his stubborn will, demanding surrender, clamorous for recognition, and now having allowed the claim he was again forced back on the unsolved question of his own history. It was as if some imp of mischief had coupled his love to the Past, and had left him without knowledge to loose the secret knot. The silence became intolerable for fear of the next words that might break it from his companion. It would be better to take control himself—so he slackened speed a little and had the satisfaction 198 of hearing Peter Masters heave a relieved sigh.

“The roads here need re-making,” as they proceeded bumpily over a rather bad piece of ground.

“For motors?”

“For everything. A road should be easy going for motors, horses, and foot-passengers. Easy and safe.”

“How would you do it?”

“A raised causeway for walkers; a road for carriages, and a track for motors. It only means so many yards more and there is plenty of land. Look at that turf—four yards of it. Might as well be road.”

“What are you going to make your roads of?”

Christopher took a deep breath; the pace of the car increased a little.

“That has to be found—will be found. It is a question of time.”

“And you mean to find it?”

“A good many people mean to find it.”

Masters shook his head.

“It won’t pay you so well as iron, Master Christopher. My offer is still open.”

Christopher was so surprised that he nearly swerved into an unfenced pond they were passing.

“It was very kind of you to make it again,” Christopher managed to stammer out, adding with a bluntness worthy of Masters himself, “I never could understand why you made it at all.”

“Neither do I,” returned Peter Masters with a laugh, “and I generally know what I’m at. Perhaps I thought it would please Aymer. As I told you just now, we were friends before his accident. I suppose you’ve heard all about that?”

For a brief moment Christopher felt temptation grip him. He was convinced the man beside him knew the untold story, and at this juncture in his life he would give much to understand all those things he 199 had never questioned or ventured to consider. Then recognising disloyalty in the very thought, he hastened to escape the pitfall. It was no use to take half measures with this man, however, so he lied again boldly.

“Of course I know,” and went back again to safer ground. “Whatever your reasons, it was good of you to think of me and kinder still to renew your offer. I expect you will think me a silly fool of a boy to refuse it again.”

“Not exactly; but a boy brought up by an Aymer Aston the second.”

“That is sufficient luck for one boy to grab out of life.”

Peter Masters chuckled. “I take it, young man, you’d rather be fathered by Aymer than by me, eh?”

Christopher muttered a very fervent affirmative between clenched teeth, which did not appear to reach his hearer’s ears, for as Masters finished his own sentence he shot a sudden, sharp, puzzled look at Christopher, and his teeth shut together with a click. He spoke no more and when Christopher hazarded a remark he got no answer.

The glory of the day was at its height when Marden came in sight; the whole world seemed to have joined in a peon of thanksgiving which for the moment drowned the unwonted echoes in Christopher’s heart that Peter Masters’s hard voice had awoken.

Youth was his, Love was his, and Patricia was to be his, and he was going to see her. He covered the distance from the lodge gates to the house in a time that taxed his companion’s nerve to the uttermost and bid fair to outpace even the throbbing, rushing pulse of spring that filled the land.