The morning before the intended fête, when workmen were busy in different parts of the house preparing the rooms, placing tents outside the windows, and arranging flowers and taking up the carpets, a carriage drove up to the door. A gentleman stepped out of it in a naval undress. He looked about him with an air of mute astonishment.
“Who is here? what is taking place?” he asked of the servant who opened the door.
“Why, we are going to have a ball to-night,” was the answer. “Who do you want to see?”
“A ball!” exclaimed the stranger. “My aunt and daughter giving a ball! Has Colonel Everard so completely recovered?”
“Why, bless you, Colonel Everard has been dead ever so long, and the Misses Everard are not in the house. My master is Mr Sleech, the owner of Stanmore. If you want to see him I will take in your name.”
“Are you mocking me, man?” exclaimed the stranger. “Where are Madam and Miss Everard?”
“Why, I rather fancy they have gone to live in the town since they were turned out of this,” answered the man, with an impudent look.
“Let me see Mr Sleech immediately, then,” said the stranger, entering the house. “I must learn clearly what has taken place without delay. Where is Mr Sleech?”
“Who wants me?” asked a voice from the study, the door of which faced the entrance. The stranger, advancing with rapid step, entered the room.
“I am Captain Everard, sir,” he said, facing Mr Sleech, who had risen from his chair with a newspaper in his hand. “Let me know, I entreat you, by what means you have come into possession of Stanmore, and tell me did I hear rightly that my uncle is dead?”