CHAPTER IVThe summer of 1902 slowly slipped away. Twenty years had now passed since Ashley Tempest had hung up the miniature of the dead Dolores in his chambers—to him twenty busy and eventful years. He was by now one of the leading members of his profession—the busiest junior at the bar. The courts had risen for the vacation which Tempest was to spend with the Shifnals. Securing his seat in the train at Euston, he had bought the evening papers and pitched them in a heap in the corner he had appropriated, and after doing so was standing in the fresh air until the last moment, smoking one of his perpetual cigarettes.
As the doors were being noisily slammed along the train, he jumped in and soon was smoothly gliding towards his destination. He heaved a sigh of relief, for with the start fro
