Clem Sypher stood at the front door of Penton Court a day or two afterwards, awaiting his guests and taking the air.

The leaves of the oaks that lined the drive fell slowly under the breath of a southwest wind, and joined their sodden brethren on the path.

The morning mist still hung around the branches.

The sky threatened rain.
A servant came from within the house, bringing a telegram on a tray.

Sypher opened it, and his strong, pink face became as overcast as the sky.