Celia hurried back from Lady Gridborough's, ran up the great stone steps and entered the hall. Catching sight of Mrs. Dexter coming from the dining-room, Celia began,

"Oh, Mrs. Dexter, I've had quite an adventure——" But she stopped as she saw that the hitherto placid housekeeper was evidently in a state of agitation, and, instead of continuing, Celia broke off with: "Oh, is anything the matter, Mrs. Dexter?"

"Matter! I should think so," responded Mrs. Dexter, throwing out her hand, which grasped a telegram. "I've just had this from his lordship the Marquess, saying that he is coming down. And to dinner! I'm sure I don't know what I'm going to do."

"But everything is in readiness?" said Celia, remembering Mrs. Dexter's vaunt.

"Of course it is, my dear; but the dinner——! All the staff seems to have lost its head; and I, myself, am so flurried——"

Celia laid her hand upon the plump arm and pressed it, encouragingly.

"It will be all right," she said, soothingly. "Surely there will be enough in the house for one man!"

"My dear young lady," retorted Mrs. Dexter, solemnly, "you have to prepare a regular dinner, with all the proper courses, whether it's for one man or a party. Like enough, his lordship will only partake of one or two dishes, but you have to provide them all, and serve them properly."

"I see," said Celia, who was beginning to understand the exigencies of rank. "Can I help you? Surely there must be something I can do!"

"Well, you can arrange the flowers for me, if you will be so good, my dear," said Mrs. Dexter. "Mr. Douglas, the head gardener, will cut you some from the conservatory."

"All right," said Celia eagerly. "You run away and see to the dinner; and if I can help you in any other way, after I've done the flowers, let me know."

Herself not unexcited, she interviewed the dignified and extremely capable head gardener, who, departing from his custom, did not utter any complaint, but sacrificed his choicest blossoms to the beautiful young lady to whom he had not yet spoken.

Celia thanked him, and ran off to get the receptacles for the flowers from the stately Mr. Smith, the butler, and set about arranging the exquisite blossoms. As she was doing so, she remembered a certain bed of beautifully-grown pansies on one of the lawns. She picked a great bunch, and arranged them by themselves in a flat bowl; and when the table was laid, her floral decorations made a brave show amidst the glittering plate and old English cut-glass.

"Oh, you've done them beautifully, my dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Dexter; and even the impassive Smith nodded his head approvingly. Celia was able to render assistance in various other ways, following Mrs. Dexter everywhere, and venturing to give a hint now and again. Then, her excitement increasing, she tried to settle down to her work in the library; but all the while she was writing down titles in her draft catalogue she was listening for the sound of the motor, and presently she heard it buzzing up the drive, followed by hasty footsteps and the murmur of subdued voices.

When Celia's dinner was brought into the little room behind the library, which was now recognized as her own, Mrs. Dexter appeared for a moment. She was quite calm now, but looked rather tired.

"Everything is all right?" said Celia, sympathetically.

"Yes, my dear," responded Mrs. Dexter, with a little sigh of relief, as she smoothed her black silk dress. "It's as well that we were all ready; though this is the shortest notice we've ever had."

"I hope the Marquess is well," said Celia.

Mrs. Dexter shook her head, and sighed again. "I'm afraid not," she said, gravely; "indeed, he is looking ill; though not so much ill as tired and worried. He has changed greatly since he was last here, and looks years and years older. When I last saw him, his lordship was in the Government, which means, as I dare say you know, a great deal of work and responsibility; but he was quite cheerful then, and strong; now——" She paused, and added, "He ought not to be so worried; but perhaps it's Lord Heyton—he's always been a trouble to his father, I'm sorry to say. But now he's married, I should have thought that he would have settled down and not have caused his father any further anxiety. The Marquess tells me that Lord Heyton is coming down with his bride in a day or two."

As Mrs. Dexter was departing, Celia said, a little shyly:

"Is there any way out of this room except through the library and the hall? I don't want to disturb the Marquess."

"There is no other door but this one," replied Mrs. Dexter. "You see, it's only a kind of ante-room. But you need not be afraid of disturbing his lordship; he will be sure to go to the drawing-room or his own sitting-room, after he has had his dinner. Though there's no cause for you to be nervous at meeting his lordship, for he's one of the kindest of men, especially to anyone in his service."

Celia ate her dinner and returned to the library, where she worked for a couple of hours to make up for the time she had lost in the afternoon; then she took up an exquisitely-bound copy of Spenser's "Faerie Queene" and settled herself in a chair for half an hour's quiet reading. But the great masterpiece could not hold her attention; she let it lie on her lap and thought of her adventures of the day; she tried not to dwell on Susie's tragedy, though it was difficult not to do so; and presently her mind reverted to Brown's Buildings, to Mr. Clendon and the young man she had rescued. And yet "rescued," she thought, with a sigh, was scarcely the word, for, unwittingly, she had made him a fugitive and an outcast.

The great house was quiet, and, relying on Mrs. Dexter's assurance that she ran no risk of intruding upon the Marquess, she turned out the lights and went into the hall. On the threshold she drew back, with a little flutter of excitement, for in the dim light of the great fire, which was always burning, she saw a tall, thin figure in evening dress standing with its hands clasped behind it. It was the Marquess. She saw distinctly the pale, worn face, the thin, almost colourless lips, drawn into a line that indicated profound sadness and a deep anxiety. He was standing before the portrait of the lad, his elder brother, of whose history Mrs. Dexter had told her; the elder brother who, if he had not died, "in foreign parts," would have been the Marquess instead of the man who was gazing at the portrait.

Celia stood quite still, her eyes chained to the haggard face; she did not know whether to withdraw into the library or to pass softly behind him and reach the stairs; and while she was hesitating, the Marquess heaved a deep sigh, made a gesture as of a man beaten by some insoluble problem, and, turning, saw her.

He did not start—men of his class are taught to repress every sign of emotion—and he stood quite still, looking at her gravely, as if the sudden interruption of his train of absorbing thought had caused him to forget whom she might be; then, as if he had remembered, he came towards her and said:

"You are Miss Grant, the librarian, I suppose?"

Even as she answered, "Yes, my lord," Celia noted the dull, toneless melancholy of his voice, the voice of a man to whom all things save one, whatever that might be, are but trivial and of no consequence.

"I am glad to see you," he said, with a little courtly inclination of his head, but certainly with no gladness in his voice. "I hope you are comfortable here; that you find your work congenial?"

"Oh, yes, my lord," said Celia, and, unconsciously, her voice was pitched low, like his own; for, somehow or other, she felt as if she were in the presence of a deep grief, of an unnamed trouble.

"I am very glad," he said again. "You are fond of books, I was told—I heard—I was given to understand. The collection"—he nodded towards the library—"is a good one, is it not?"

"A very good one," assented Celia; "it seems to me a magnificent library. But, then, I am not qualified to express an opinion. I have not much experience; I mean, of private libraries; I am used to the British Museum one only."

"My great grandfather was an enthusiastic collector," said the Marquess; "but I fear I have not inherited his taste, and have neglected the library."

In an absent-minded kind of way, he passed into the superb room, and looked round, reflectively.

"You are making a catalogue, of course? It must be a very heavy task, especially for one so young."

Celia began to tremble; and at that moment she realized fully how precious the work and position were to her.

"I am not so very young, my lord," she said, with a little, nervous smile. "I am twenty-two."

He looked at her with a suspicion of a smile on his lips.

"Youth has much in its favour," he said. "It is rich in energy and in strength. All the same, one must not abuse either. You are working late to-night; that is not wise."

"I was out, took a holiday, this afternoon, and was making up for it; but I enjoy working at night; it is so quiet—but it is always quiet here, in this great place."

"You have no father and mother?" he said, after a pause, during which he was trying to remember what Mr. Clendon had told him of her.

"No, my lord," said Celia. "I have no one belonging to me."

"That is sad," he said, more to himself than to her. "Mrs. Dexter looks after you, I suppose? I must tell her to see that you do not work too hard."

"She is more than kind to me," said Celia, warmly.

There was another pause; she did not know whether to remain or stay; but, as he had taken up the draft catalogue, she paused, standing by the table and waiting to see if he would speak to her again.

"Do you not feel lonely here?" he asked.

"Oh, no," she replied, promptly. "Not the very least. There is Mrs. Dexter, and the books and——" She laid her hand on the head of Roddy, who strolled in at the moment, and, after wagging his tail in response to her caress, moved slowly to the Marquess and thrust a wet, cold nose against the long, thin hand. "Besides, I made an acquaintance this afternoon; a lady, a dear old lady, Lady Gridborough, at Lensmore Grange, you know."

"Yes, I know," he remarked, with a nod. "That is well. She is a good soul. Warm-hearted, but eccentric. By the way, the house will not be so dull presently; for my son, Lord Heyton, and his newly-married wife are coming to stay."

As he made the announcement, he checked a sigh and turned away. Celia waited for a moment or two; the Marquess had sunk into a chair, his eyes fixed on the great dog, which had thrown itself at his feet. It seemed to Celia that his lordship had forgotten her.

"Good night, my lord," she said, softly.

He looked up with a start, rose, and opened the door for her, and, with a courtly inclination of the head, bade her good night.

Now a strange thing happened. As Celia was crossing the hall, she stopped and looked at the portrait before which the Marquess had been standing; and she remembered how she had been struck by a fancied resemblance to someone whom she could not trace. Her pause before the picture was scarcely more than momentary, but she was startled by the sound of footsteps, and, looking up with a half-frightened gaze, found the Marquess standing beside her. His face was almost stern, his dark eyes, so like those of the picture, were fixed on her, questioningly; and there was just a suspicion of anger in the keenness of his regard.

"You are interested in that picture?" he said, in a dry voice.

"I—I——Yes," said Celia, telling herself that she had no cause for fear, seeing that she had committed no crime.

"Why?" he demanded, curtly, and his tone was still dry and harsh.

Celia was silent for a moment; then she raised her eyes to his, calmly—for what was there to fear, why should he be angry with her for looking at the portrait?

"It is a very beautiful picture," she said.

The Marquess's brows lifted, and he bent his head as if apologizing for his curtness.

"That is true," he said, more gently. "It is one of the best in the collection. And your interest is only an artistic one?"

Celia had only to say "Yes," and to escape; but she was not given to equivocation; moreover, her high spirit had resented the anger and suspicion in his manner, for which, she felt, he had no justification.

"Not only, my lord," she said, as quietly as before; "but the first time I saw it, I thought that the face of the portrait was like that of someone I knew."

She was startled by the sudden change in his demeanour. His brows came down again, his eyes grew piercing, his lips stern.

"Like whom?" he demanded, shortly.

"I don't know," she said, with a slight shrug; "that is why the portrait interests me so. If I could trace the resemblance, I should—well, not be so bothered by it."

The Marquess paced to the fire and held his hands to it, as if he had become cold suddenly.

"Strange!" he said, musingly, and with an air of indifference, which Celia felt to be assumed. "Is the man you think resembles the portrait young—or old?"

As he put the question, a sudden flood of light seemed to illumine Celia's mind; it was as if she had been gazing perplexedly on a statue swathed in its covering, and as if the covering had been swept away and the statue revealed. She knew now that the face in the portrait resembled that of the young man on whom her thoughts were always dwelling. The resemblance was faint; but it existed in her mind quite plainly. The revelation brought the blood to her face, then she became pale again. The Marquess, looking over his shoulder, waited for her answer.

"I remember now, my lord——" she began.

"Young or old?" he said, not loudly, but with a quiet insistence.

"Young," replied Celia.

To her surprise and relief, the Marquess gave a little dry, almost contemptuous, laugh; and as he turned to her, with his hands folded behind his back, there was a faint smile on his face.

"Who is he?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied Celia.

"You don't know!" said his lordship, raising his brows. "Pardon me, I don't understand."

Celia stood before him, her hands clasped together in a clasp that, light at first, became tighter; her eyes were downcast, a slight fold came between her brows; for an inappreciable second or two, she lost consciousness of the great hall, the tall, bent figure silhouetted against the fire; she was back in Brown's Buildings, in that poverty-stricken room, and she saw the young man's head lying on his outstretched arm, a revolver in his hand.

"I don't know," she repeated, returning, suddenly, from that vision of the past. "It was someone I met, saw, for a short time——"

"But his name?" said the Marquess, with a subdued impatience.

"That I don't know," Celia replied, raising her eyes, in which the Marquess could not fail to read truth and honesty. "I saw him once only, and for a short time, and then—then he passed out of my life. I mean, that I did not see him again; that it is unlikely I shall ever see him again."

"Where was this—this meeting of which you speak?" inquired the Marquess, in a conversational tone. "Pardon me if I seem intrusive—it is your affair and yours only—but you have excited my curiosity. The portrait is that of my brother."

"I know," said Celia. "I do not mind your asking me; but I cannot tell you. What passed between me and him——" She stopped; she was on delicate ground; this man, with his worldly experience, his acute intelligence, might lead her on to disclose what had happened that night; she could not cope with him. "I do not know his name."

The Marquess bowed his head, and smiled slightly, as if he scented the aroma of a commonplace romance.

"Quite so," he said. "A casual meeting. Such occurs occasionally in the course of one's life, and I dare say the resemblance you noticed was only a fancied one. It must have been," he added, looking on the ground, and speaking in an absent way; "for as it happens, my brother"—he nodded towards the portrait—"was unmarried, had no relations other than myself and my son." He turned away to the fire again. "Oh, yes; only a fancied one. Good night."

This was a definite dismissal, and Celia, murmuring, "Good night, my lord," went up the stairs. At the bend of the corridor she glanced down involuntarily. The Marquess had turned from the fire again, and was looking, with bent brows, at the portrait.