HUMPHREYS AND HIS INHERITANCE ABOUT fifteen years ago, on a date late in August or early in September, a train drew up at Wilsthorpe,* a country station in Eastern England. Out of it stepped (with other passengers) a rather tall and reasonably good-looking young man, carrying a handbag and some papers tied up in a packet. He was expecting to be met, one would say, from the way in which he looked about him: and he was, as obviously, expected. The stationmaster ran forward a step or two, and then, seeming to recollect himself, turned and beckoned to a stout and consequential person with a short round beard who was scanning the train with some appearance of bewilderment. ‘Mr. Cooper,’ he called out,—‘Mr. Cooper, I think this is your gentleman’; and then to the passenger who had just alighted, ‘Mr. Humphreys, sir? Glad to bid you welcome to Wilsthorpe. There’s a cart from the Hall for your luggage, and here’s Mr. Cooper, what I think you know.’ Mr. Cooper had hurried up, and now raised his hat and shook hands.
