His eyes traveled up the wide flags leading to the veranda, and he drew a picture of a square-shouldered old man tramping backward and forward, the wind tangling his thin white hair, his hands behind his back, his chin in his collar and at his heels a white bulldog.

Rapidly another picture came.

It was an English scene.

And the echo of a voice fell on his ears.

"My way and the freedom of the house and the key to the purse; your way and a closed door while I live.