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he placed on the dresser. Then he lay down on the bed and gazed at them.
    Later, he wandered amidst the rooms, looking at all the old things: the picture gallery, with the portraits of the former Masters hung in long somber lines down its length; the conservatory, fragrant with lilacs and roses; the morning room, happy in yellow and gold; the gentlemen’s chamber, drab as an old man; the library, ponderous and strange—and all the other rooms, except only the dining room, which he wished to save for later. There was much he had forgotten, and much he saw with new eyes. Most of all, he remembered the last week he had spent with his father. Lady Murmur’s words had stung him, yet as he considered, he realized he, too, had said good-bye in those final days. She could not take that from him, not even with cruel insinuations masked behind pleasantries.
    Near twilight, he wandered out the garden entrance into the yard. With a trace of anxiety he looked at the old well, slightly smaller than he recalled, its stone worn as ever, the verdigris creeping over its brass plate, and he gave a shiver, remembering the fall, the cold water, and the fear. But he did not dwell upon it long, for he had spent too many happy days in that yard, and his mind drifted toward those times.
    Large, sparse raindrops descended as he made his way to the low brick wall. For an instant he was tempted to step over it, to defy the barrier, but instead he wandered into the grape arbor, though not without casting a sideways glance to insure the gate was locked. The wall ascended to meet the top of the arbor, making of the gate a white wooden door. The shading leaves left the arbor in shadow; he could hear the rain pattering against them, soft as angels’ feet. He listened a moment, his mind empty and joyful at the same time, watching the water rill down the branches.
    Thunder rolled in the distance, and the rain increased. He shivered violently from a sudden chill as he left the arbor and strolled to the porch. Looking back, he saw the dark figure of the Bobby standing beneath the lamppost light, faceless in the obscuring rain, as if he had waited there all through Carter’s exile. Sudden anger seized him, that his enemy remained while his father was gone; he wanted to launch himself over the wall, to destroy this evil with his bare hands. But he restrained himself with cold determination, saying softly, “You no longer deal with a boy. I will uncover your secrets.” He would confront the horror when he knew what he faced. He glared at his enemy a long moment, then strode back into the house, bolting the door behind him.
    * * *
    Supper that night was a pleasant affair, since neither Lady Murmur nor Duskin joined Carter and Mr. Hope in the dining room. Both sorrow and joy swept through Carter as Brittle ushered him into the room where his father had dined and kept council with numerous lords and ladies so many years ago. He saw with new eyes the splendor of the room: in some remote time the inglenook had been transformed into a formidable construction of white marble, with a tall, fluted arch adorned with plaster grape clusters, a two-foot bas-relief border above it depicting a pandemonium of squirrels bounding between maple branches, and a heavy stone apron below, descending nearly to the fireplace mantel. It made a romantic hideaway beneath, with hooded chimneypiece, patterned tiles, and pre-Raphaelite ladies in Morris stained glass. Two cushioned benches rested to either side of the fireplace, so that one could sit within the nook, under the shadow of the heavy arch. Upon the mantel, carved in wood, was written: “Gainsay Who Dare” above a triple-towered castle with an armored hand holding a sword rising from the topmost turret. The floor was covered with Persian rugs of royal purple, with great golden sunflowers. The ceiling and walls were paneled in ornamental oak, and held a built-in sideboard with a curved top. The rectangular oaken table, with