"Tell him I am engaged, and he had better come another time. Ask his name, please."
The butler went, and returning said—"It is Mr. Maurice, sir."
"I decline to see Mr. Maurice." The Squire had gone strangely pale.
But in the doorway, behind the solid figure of the old butler, stood a younger and slighter figure, resolute in air.
"And I decline to be sent away," a voice said, stern as the Squire's own.
Forest glanced doubtfully from the one to the other. And the one thing which powerfully impressed him was—not the anger of his master, not the presumption of the caller, but a curious intangible likeness in those two faces; a likeness which could not be defined, but which was undeniable.
Mr. Stirling stood up slowly. The younger man's eyes met his, and there was a swift crossfire, a brief, silent passage-at-arms, which ended in victory for the newcomer. Mr. Stirling said—
"Very well. I will give you five minutes. You may go, Forest."
"I beg your pardon for insisting," Maurice said when the door was shut. "But insist I must. A few words with you are necessary."
He hesitated, noting the Squire's changed and haggard look.