The baronet was merry over luncheon. The servants wondered at first, but before the soup was removed they wondered no more. The young man at the table, in whom not one of them had recognized the bookbinder, was the lost heir to Mortgrange! He was worth finding, they agreed—one who could hold his own! The house would be merrier now—thank heaven! They liked Mr. Arthur well enough, but here was his master!

The meal was over, and the baronet always slept after lunch.

“You’ll stay to dinner, won’t you, Mr. Wingfold?” he said, rising. “Richard, ring the bell. Better send for Mrs. Locke at once and arrange with her where you will sleep.”

“Then may I choose my own room, sir?” asked Richard.

“Of course—but better not too near my lady’s,” answered his father with a grim smile as he hobbled from the room.

“Mrs. Locke,” said Richard, when the housekeeper came, “I want to see the room that used to be the nursery—in the older time, I mean.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Mrs. Locke pleasantly, and led him up two flights of stairs and along corridor and passage to the room Richard had occupied before—the very room out of which one midnight he had been borne in terror, twenty years before, by the woman he called his mother.

He glanced around. He had taken little notice of the walls and humble surroundings during his previous sojourn at the Hall. Looking upon it now with new eyes, it was clear that it had not been repapered, as sir Wilton had thought, and had said to Mrs. Tuke.

“This shall be my room,” said Richard. “Will you kindly get it ready for me?”

She hesitated. To Mrs. Locke the place seemed uninhabitable by a gentleman.

“I will send for the painter and paper-hanger at once,” she replied, “but it will take more than a week to get ready.”

“Please, leave it as it is,” he answered. “You can have the floor swept, of course,” he added with a smile, seeing her look of dismay. “I will sleep here tonight, and we can settle afterward what is to be done to it. There was a portrait when I was here before,” he went on, “over the chimney-piece, the portrait of a lady—not well painted, I imagine, but I liked it. What has become of it?”

Then first it began to dawn on Mrs. Locke that the young man who mended the books and the heir to Mortgrange were the same person.

“It fell down one day, and has not been put up again,” she answered.

“Do you know where it is?”

“I will find it, sir.”

“Do, if you please. Whose portrait is it?”

“The last lady Lestrange’s, sir—But bless my stupid old head! It’s his own mother’s picture he’s asking for! You’ll pardon me, sir! The thing’s more bewildering than you’d think! I’ll go and get it at once.”

“Thank you. I will wait till you bring it.”

“There’s nowhere for you to sit, sir!” lamented the old lady. “If I’d only known! I’m sure, sir, I wish you joy!”