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He sat that evening before the huge stone fireplace in the library, watching abstractedly a fire of logs that crackled and spluttered. The room was a handsome one, expensively and usefully furnished. The walls were panelled from floor to raftered ceiling, and over the recessed windows heavy blue-velvet curtains had been drawn. From the fire Mr. Bellamy's eyes roved up to the stone shield above the fireplace, with its rampant leopards, which the action of time had almost obliterated. Beneath, and more distinct, was carved the de Curcys' motto:

"They spelt pretty badly in the old days," thought Abe complacently. He was not much of a speller himself. "Right is right!" A fool thing to say, anyway. Like saying that "black is black" or "water is wet."

It was late, and his evening task had been completed, but he was loth to leave the deep armchair in which he sat. At last he rose, pulled back the curtain which covered the door and unlocked it. Then he returned to the fireplace and pulled a bell-cord. Julius Savini answered the summons.