Vincent Dashwood seemed to expand, he stood there smiling benignly, he had lost his strange uneasiness of manner altogether. And yet Mary did not fail to notice the furtive look in his eyes. There must be something wrong here, she thought; it was impossible to regard this man as the head of the family. For three hundred years Dashwood had been ruled by a gentleman, a man of honour.

And this smirking creature, with the red, grinning face and cunning eyes, was neither. Mary knew him to be little better than a blackmailer. And if he was the person he claimed to be, why had he not come forward and proclaimed his identity before? She could not believe that Vincent Dashwood had hidden his light under a bushel merely because he was short of one particular document.

The girl did not believe that he would have spoken now had not the awkward incident of the matchbox compelled him to do so. And here was Ralph Darnley actually pushing forward the cause of the new claimant and giving him the one proof that he needed.

And yet the thing was impossible; surely the walls of the house would collapse about the head of so poor a ruler as Vincent Dashwood. The old familiar objects around Mary filled her with a kind of dumb pain. She was going to lose them all--the pictures and the gardens, the horses in the stables, and the very deer that loved her. What the future held for her, Mary had not considered. She brought herself back to the present with an effort; she became aware that Vincent Dashwood was speaking.

"This--this is really extraordinary," he cackled. "Like a scene from a play. I had my own good reasons for not proclaiming my identity for the present, but you all see that circumstances have been too strong for me. And then at the critical moment Mr. Darnley comes along with that paper. How it came into his possession----"

"That is easily explained," Ralph said in his grave way. "It was given to me by Mr. Ralph Dashwood in circumstances that I need not go into here. Primarily, the certificate was to have been forwarded to the solicitors of this estate."

"Quite so, quite so," Dashwood said loftily. "Really, it doesn't matter. The point is that my proofs are now complete. My idea was to do nothing and say nothing till Lady Dashwood--my grandmother--had become resigned to the change in the condition of affairs. It is perhaps natural that the good lady should look coldly on me and that all her affection should be for Mary here. And I am bound to say that Mary has not treated me with the friendliness that I could have wished."

Hot words rose to the girl's lips, but she checked herself with an effort. Doubtless the new heir was doing his best to be agreeable, perhaps he did not know how offensive he was.

"But I am not going to be vindictive," he resumed. "It is only natural that you should feel a little sore and hurt. One doesn't turn out of a snug crib like this without turning a hair. As a matter of fact, there is no reason why you should go at all, at least, not for some time to come. I don't suppose I shall ever marry--I'm not that kind of chap. There is no reason why Mary and the old gentleman and myself shouldn't be very snug here together. Mr. Dashwood wants little more than the run of his teeth at his time of life."

Mary's cheeks flamed at the unconscious humiliation. She was being offered a home as a pauper and a dependent; it was infinitely worse than going into a workhouse. Mary had never dreamed of being humbled and crushed in the dust like this. Before she could reply, Slight looked into the doorway, his dry, red face screwed up into the semblance of respect. He announced Horace Mayfield in a loud voice.

Mayfield came in, glass in eye, serene and self-confident, his hard mouth looking more like a steel trap than ever. The quiet triumph in his eyes was not lost on Mary; she did not fail to note the gleam of possession as he glanced at her. There was cold consolation in the knowledge that after all Mayfield was powerless to hold her soul and body in thraldom any longer.

"I beg your pardon," Mayfield said, "I seem to be intruding on a family conference or something of that kind. Slight did not tell me, though I have every reason to believe that he was listening outside the door. What are you doing here?"

The question was flung headlong at Vincent Dashwood, who had started and changed colour as Mayfield came in. Evidently these two knew one another, for Mayfield was rudely contemptuous, Dashwood cringing yet defiant. Was there yet another vulgar mystery here? Mary wondered wearily.

"Perhaps I had better explain," Ralph said. "This, Mr. Mayfield, is an unexpected, but nevertheless dramatic situation. Let me prese............