Mr.
Brimsdown rolled it round his tongue as though it were a vintage port--pronounced it lingeringly, rolling the "rr's" sonorously, and hissing the "ss's" with a caressing sibilant sound.
Turrald of Missenden! Robert Turold was the lineal descendant of the name, and worthy of the title.

Mr.Brimsdown had always felt that, from the very first.

There was something noble and dominating in his presence.

Blood told; there could be no doubt of that.
What stronger proof of it could be found than the dogged strength with which the dead man had persisted for thirty years in his effort to claim as his rightful due a baronial title which had been in abeyance for four hundred years?
And he would have succeeded--was on the verge of success--but for this unlucky stroke of Death's.
With a sigh for the frailty of human hopes, Mr.Brimsdown put an end to his reflections and went downstairs for the post.
By the dim light of the lowered hall gas he saw an envelope lying on the floor--a thick grey envelope addressed to himself in a thin irregular hand.

The sight of that superscription startled him like a glimpse of the unseen.