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given a good deal of thought to the matter—he had thought of little else for the past month, ever since he had told his mother of his plans. He had told her because, having once said the words aloud, he knew he would not take them back. He deplored the ne cessity for these little stratagems to force himself to do things he would eventually have to do in any case, but of late—even without Vernon’s raising uncomfortable ques tions and his mother’s unexpected lack of sympathy for his mental travails—they had become increasingly necessary.
    Even his servants had been aware that his purpose in rid ing out today was an unusual one. Henley, his bailiff, had been waiting to speak with him as soon as he had finished breakfast, saying he did not wish to intrude on Mr Alling ham...er, later.
    “Why, Henley, what is so urgent that it must be attended to ... er, now?”
    Henley, who had been William Allingham’s bailiff for many years before coming into his son’s employ, was a rough-hewn personage who nevertheless carried himself with dignity and spoke in more cultured accents than might be expected to issue from a heavy-set gentleman of advanc ing years. In fact, his large nose and slightly protruding eyes gave him more than a passing resemblance to several royal dukes which, Allingham alleged to his mother, must account for Henley’s regal air.
    “I beg your pardon, sir, if I implied anything presumptu ous by my speech,” said Henley primly. “I meant only to inform you as soon as possible that while you were away, those twenty acres that lie between our southern boundary and Sir Henry Rodgers’s lands have come up for sale.”
    “The piece with the hunting box on it?”
    “Yes, sir,” Henley confirmed, with a sniff. “I daresay the owner has discovered at last that this is indifferent country at best for hunting. Anyone could have told him so. I took the liberty of telling the agent in charge that you would be interested in acquiring the parcel, sir.”
    “Quite right, Henley—I’m obliged to you. What are they asking for it?”
    A short discussion of the possible uses to which the land in question might be put ended with Allingham’s authorising Henley to make an offer for it, and after a few minutes more of reviewing estate matters, Henley excused himself, saying again that he did not wish to keep Mr Allingham from his business.
    “Henley!” Allingham called out, as the older man was closing the door on this remark.
    “Sir?”
    “I collect that the entire household knows what my busi ness is this morning. Would you mind telling me what it is?”
    Well acquainted with his employer’s punctilious set- downs, Henley replied blandly that he was sure he couldn’t say.
    Allingham laughed. “Very well, damn you! Oh, but on your way out, Henley, have them put the bays to. I’ll take the curricle—no never mind,” he amended, eying his bailiff, “I can see by your expression that I ask too much. I’ll ride. I’ll even saddle my own horse.”
    “Certainly, sir,” Henley said, leaving some doubt as to which of Mr Allingham’s remarks he was addressing, and went out, closing the door with exaggerated care behind him.
    Not much later, Allingham found himself taking the longer route to the Dudley mansion. Instead of riding across country, he had elected to follow the leisurely winding lane that skirted the wood separating the Oak wood lands from Brookfield. It was a fine day after all. Sun light filtered through the bare branches of the trees to his right and made golden patches on the sandy lane. Then, through a break in the trees, Allingham caught sight of the real reason for his determination to put himself through the trials of the next several hours.
    A fine view of his own home, softened by a low-hanging haze, presented itself to his view. The mellowed grey stone house, nestled in a grove of trees, was the focal point of the picture; a stream wandered through the trees and around the house. Spreading