stolidly: "it's a bare idea."
"A very wild and a very absurd one, my boy. There is nothing to connect the sandal-wood man (as you call him) with Carson."
"Perhaps not, Mallow. But if Carson does not turn up soon I shall begin to think that my idea is not so ridiculous as you say."
"If he does not turn up," repeated Mallow with emphasis, "that's just it, but he will turn up if it is only to take from me the only girl I ever really cared about--a trite saying no doubt, but a true one in this case."
"Every fellow says the same thing," said Aldean, as the train slowed down into Reading Station. "Here we are."
Casterwell lies--as every one knows or should know, seeing that it is one of the prettiest villages in the home counties--amongst the Berkshire hills, some ten miles from Reading. Lord Aldean's cart was waiting for himself and his friend. Mallow walked leisurely out of the station into the sunshine, and watched the porter transfer his portmanteau to Aldean's groom. Whilst he was standing on the edge of the pavement a plump little man, rosy in face and neat in dress, stopped short before him. He carried a black bag, but dropped this to hold out a friendly hand to Mallow.
"Well, well," he chirped, just like an amiable robin; "and who would have thought of seeing you here, Mr. Mallow? You're here on business, I presume?"
"I have come down to stay with Lord Aldean at Casterwell, Mr. Dimbal," replied Mallow, graciously.
"Miss Bellairs' busi---- Ah, here is his lordship. How d'ye do, my lord? On the road to Casterwell, eh? I'm going there myself."
"To see Miss Bellairs, did you say?" asked Mallow, impatiently. "There's nothing wrong, I hope?"
"Good gracious, no. Why should there be anything wrong?"
"Why, indeed," said Aldean, laughing. "Lawyers and wrong never go together."
"Ha, ha! very good, my lord; but we are a much-maligned profession. No, Mr. Mallow, nothing is wrong with Miss Bellairs. On the contrary, everything is very right. I bring her the good news that Mr. Carson has arrived."
"Oh," said Mallow, with a glance at Aldean, "have you seen him?"
"Yes, he called yesterday at my office, and to-morrow he comes to Casterwell to see his future wife. Well, well; good-day, good-day, I see my fly, I must be off. Good-day, Mr. Mallow; my lord, good-day," and the little lawyer bustled off.
"So Carson isn't the sandal-wood man, after all," observed Aldean.
"No, God forgive me! I wish he were," replied Mallow, and frowned.
CHAPTER II.
THE SEALED LETTER.
Casterwell is an aggressively antique village, the delight of landscape painters and enthusiasts of the hand camera. It has been painted and photographed times without number, and its two crooked streets, its market cross, its mediæval church and ruined castle are all of them familiar enough to the frequenters of London art galleries. Bicycles converge to it from the four quarters of England, transatlantic tourists twang the melodious American tongue under the gabled roof of its principal inn, the omnivorous kodaker clicks his shutter at donjon, battlement, and ivy-covered tower, and unscrupulous authors thieve its local legends for the harrowing of the public in Christmas numbers and magazines. The name is obviously of Latin origin, and from the Castraville of the middle ages we have the Casterwell of to-day. On the brow of an adjoining hill the circumvallations of the ubiquitous Romans show that the village originally received its name from a military post of the days of Caractacus and Boadicea. But the Imperial legions have marched into the outer darkness, the baron of the castle is a handful of dust, the founders of the church lie mouldering in their ornate tombs, and Casterwell survives them all: a quaint, pretty, peaceful spot, beautiful even in its decay.
The village lies in a dip of the ground--hardly to be called a valley--between two wooded hills swelling gently from the surrounding plain. On one of these rises a square palace of white free-stone ornate, and conspicuous by force of its many windows and lofty tower--this latter well-nigh offensively incongruous with the general architectural design. This grandiose barrack is "Kingsholme," the country seat of Lord Aldean. In it he lives like a mouse in a haystack. It is many times too large for a single young orphan, and it takes much more of the orphan's income to keep up than he likes.
Thither Aldean and his friend spun as fast as a quick-trotting mare could take them. As they turned into the park Mallow cast a wistful look towards the other hill, where, surrounded by its ancient woods, lay embosomed the dwelling of Miss Olive Bellairs--the lady of Casterwell Manor. The soul of this hapless lover was full of regret in that he was not the occupant of Mr. Dimbal's fly, and he sighed as he mastered his feelings, in subservience to the exigencies of social intercourse--a necessity for the moment, but one by no means to his taste.
Meanwhile the fly--the tortoise to the Aldean hare--crawled doggedly along the dusty road. Mr. Dimbal, with a complacent smile on his rosy face, and his black bag established safely on his knees, glanced absently out of the window. Through incessant clouds of dust he caught glimpses of the flowering hedges, and now and again behind them of the corn waving in the hot wind. Then a cottage or so with its thatched roof and tiny garden marked the proximity to the village, and soon he was rumbling through Casterwell High Street. At last the avenue leading to the Manor House came in sight, and, as his eye rested on the mansion, Mr. Dimbal heaved a sigh of relief to think that he was at his journey's end. Three hours of continuous travelling on a hot midsummer day are not exactly the height of bliss to a comfortable elderly gentleman.
The house was typical of its kind. Here were diamond-paned casements, tall oriel windows, lofty-tiled roofs surmounted by stacks of twisting chimneys, terraces of grey stone with urns and statues--in fact, all and everything which we are accustomed to associate with the conventional old English manor-house.
The whole place was radiant with roses. The walls of the house were draped with them; they clambered over the balustrades of the terraces; they flamed in the wide-mouthed urns; they clothed the antique statues, and rioted round the lawn in prodigal profusion, dazzling the eye with their glorious tints, and filling the air with their perfume. "A dwelling fit for Flora, truly"--it was an unusual flight of fancy for Dimbal, but he gave way to it even as he stepped from out his dusty old fly. He raised his eyes, and lo! the "lady of flowers" was waiting to greet him. In truth she was comely enough, this young woman, for the most beautiful of goddesses. Not an ideal Venus perhaps, or an imperial Juno, but an eminently healthy and withal dainty goddess of spring was Olive Bellairs--a trifle reminiscent maybe of Hebe, the girlish and ever young.
Neither divinely tall nor unduly slender, her figure was neatness exemplified. Her hair was brown, so were her eyes; while, did you seek to compare her complexion, you must perforce fall back upon the well-worn simile of the rose-leaf.
She was dressed in pure white. "And how are you, Mr. Dimbal?" she said. "For a whole hour have I been watching for you."
"If', like the Lord Chancellor in 'Iolanthe,' I were possessed of wings, my dear, you would not have had to wait at all."
"Well, now you are here, I'm sure you're very hungry. Lunch is quite ready; come along!"
"Yes, my dear, and I am quite ready, too; but I should not eat my luncheon in peace did I not first discharge, at least, the more important part of my mission."
"Oh dear," pouted Olive, "won't the
