“It must have been taken on to Garchester,” remarked the traveller; and, turning to the guard, he gave him directions to look after it, and despatch it back again by the first train, slipping at the same time a gratuity into his hand.

The guard touched his hat humbly; he now knew who the gentleman was.  And he went into inward repentance for slamming the carriage-door, as he got into his box, and the engine and train puffed on.

“You’ll send it up as soon as it comes,” said the traveller to the station-master.

“Where to, sir?”

The stranger raised his eyes in slight surprise, and pointed to the house in the distance.  He had assumed that he was known.

“To Hartledon.”

Then he was one of the family!  The station-master touched his hat.  Mr. Jones, in the background, touched his, and for the first time the traveller’s eye fell upon him as he was turning to leave the platform.

“Why, Jones!  It’s never you?”

“Yes, it is, sir.”  But Mr. Jones looked abashed as he acknowledged himself.  And it may be observed that his language, when addressing this gentleman, was a slight improvement upon the homely phraseology of his everyday life.

“But—­you are surely not working here!—­a porter!”

“My business fell through, sir,” returned the man.  “I’m here till I can turn myself round, sir, and get into it again.”

“What caused it to fall through?” asked the traveller; a kindly sympathy in his fine blue eyes.

Mr. Jones shuffled upon one foot.  He would not have given the true answer—­“Drinking”—­for the world.

“There’s such opposition started up in the place, sir; folks would draw your heart’s blood from you if they could.  And then I’ve such a lot of mouths to feed.  I can’t think what the plague such a tribe of children come for.  Nobody wants ’em.”

The traveller laughed; but put no further questions.  Remembering somewhat of Mr. Jones’s propensity in the old days, he thought perhaps something besides children and opposition had had to do with the downfall.  He stood for a moment looking at the station which had not been completed when he last saw it—­and a very pretty station it was, surrounded by its gay flowerbeds—­and then went down the road.

“I suppose he is one of the Hartledon family, Jones?” said the station-master, looking after him.

“He’s the earl’s brother,” replied Mr. Jones, relapsing into sulkiness.  “There’s only them two left; t’other died.  Wonder if they be coming to Hartledon again?  Calne haven’t seemed the same since they left it.”

“Which is this one?”

“He can’t be anybody but himself,” retorted Mr. Jones, irascibly, deeming the question superfluous.  “There be but the two left, I say—­the earl and him; everybody knows him for the Honourable Percival Elster.  The other son, George, died; leastways, was murdered.”

“Murdered!” echoed the station-master aghast.