modern houses have been built upon the rising ground. It was to one of these that Stackhurst guided me.
“That’s The Haven, as Bellamy called it. The one with the corner tower and slate roof. Not bad for a man who started with nothing but——— By Jove, look at that!”
The garden gate of The Haven had opened and a man had emerged. There was no mistaking that tall, angular, straggling figure. It was Ian Murdoch, the mathematician. A moment later we confronted him upon the road.
“Hullo!” said Stackhurst. The man nodded, gave us a sideways glance from his curious dark eyes, and would have passed us, but his principal pulled him up.
“What were you doing there?” he asked.
Murdoch’s face flushed with anger. “I am your subordinate, sir, under your roof. I am not aware that I owe you any account of my private actions.”
Stackhurst’s nerves were near the surface after all he had endured. Otherwise, perhaps, he would have waited. Now he lost his temper completely.
“In the circumstances your answer is pure impertinence, Mr. Murdoch.”
“Your own question might perhaps come under the same heading.”
“This is not the first time that I have had to overlook your insubordinate ways. It will certainly be the last. You will kindly make fresh arrangements for your future as speedily as you can.”
“I had intended to do so. I have lost to-day the only person who made The Gables habitable.”
He strode off upon his way, while Stackhurst, with
