Edgar went down next morning to his nearest railway station with an absolute absence of every exciting incident. The groom was waiting with his dogcart, the western sun threw a slanting line on the country, everything looked like home-coming and peace. “Is all right at the Hall?” he asked for mere custom’s sake, as he took the reins. “Yes, sir, so far as I know, sir, but Mrs. Fillpot, she thinks there’s something to do with Miss Arden,” said the groom. “Something to do?” Edgar echoed, unfamiliar with the homely phrase. “Poorly, sir, she thinks, does Mrs. Fillpot,” said the man. A headache, I suppose, Edgar thought to himself, and drove on without alarm. How fresh the country was, how green the trees, how restful all those houses, the villagers at their doors, the village patriarchs working leisurely in their little gardens. Even the Red House as he passed it blinked and shone in the sunshine, offering him a certain welcome. Was Arthur Arden there still, he wondered, and how was his suit progressing, and what did Alice Pimpernel think of it? Had she said, “Oh yes, Mr. Arden,” to his kinsman’s wooing? All these things passed through Edgar’s mind as he drove along with a smile upon his face, and the pleasant confidence of a man going home. He was glad to recognise the very trees, much more the familiar faces; glad to think of his sister’s welcome which awaited him--full of natural satisfaction and content.