"I see your drift now," remarked Percival, quietly re-lighting his pipe. "Where is this Italian Brian Luttrell to be found?"

"Need I tell you? Should I come here with this story if I were not the man?"

He asked the question almost sadly, but with a simplicity of manner which showed him to be free from any desire to produce any theatrical effect. He waited for a moment, looking steadily at Percival, whose darkening brow and kindling eyes displayed rapidly-rising anger.

"I was called Dino Vasari at San Stefano," he continued, "but I believe that my rightful name is Brian Luttrell, and that Vincenza Vasari changed the children during an illness of Mrs. Luttrell's."

"And that, therefore," said Percival, slowly, "you are the owner of the Strathleckie property—or, as it is generally called, the Luttrell property—now possessed by Miss Murray?"

Dino bowed his head.

Percival puffed away at his pipe for a minute or two, and surveyed him from head to foot with angry, contemptuous eyes. The only thing that prevented him from letting loose a storm of rage upon Dino's head was the young man's air of grave simplicity and good faith. He did not look like an intentional impostor, such as Percival Heron would gladly have believed him to be.

"Do you know," inquired Heron, after a momentary pause, "what the penalties are for attempting to extort money, or for passing yourself off under a false name in order to get property? Did you ever hear of the Claimant and Portland Prison? I would advise you to acquaint yourself with these details before you come to me again. You may be more fool than knave; but you may carry your foolery or your knavery elsewhere."

Dino smiled.

"You had better hear the rest of my story before you indulge in these idle threats, Mr. Heron. I know perfectly well what I am doing."

There was a tone of lofty assurance, almost of superiority, in Dino's calm voice, which galled Percival, because he felt that it had the power of subduing him a little. Before he had thought of a rejoinder, the young Benedictine resumed his story.

"You will say rightly enough that these were not proofs. So Padre Cristoforo said when he kept me in the monastery until I came to years of discretion. So he told Brian Luttrell when he came to San Stefano. But since that day new witnesses have arisen. Vincenza Vasari was not dead: she had only disappeared for a time. She is now found, and she is prepared to swear to the truth of the story that I have told you. Mrs. Luttrell's suspicions, the statement made by Vincenza's husband and mother, the confession of another woman who was Vincenza's accomplice, all form corroborative evidence which will, I think, be quite sufficient to prove the case. So, at least, Messrs. Brett and Grattan assure me, and they have gone carefully into the matter, and have the original papers in their possession."

"Brett and Grattan!" repeated Percival. He knew the names. "Do you say that Brett and Grattan have taken it up? You must have managed matters cleverly: Brett and Grattan are a respectable firm."

"You are at liberty, of course, to question them. You may, perhaps, credit their statement."

"I will certainly go to them and expose this imposture," said Percival, haughtily. "I suppose you have no objection," with a hardly-concealed sneer, "to go with me to them at once?"

"Not in the least. I am quite ready."

Percival was rather staggered by his willingness to accompany him. He laid down his pipe, which he had been holding mechanically for some time in his hand, and made a step towards the door. But as he reached it Dino spoke again.

"I wish, Mr. Heron, that before you go to these lawyers you would listen to me a little longer. If for a moment or two you would divest yourself of your suspicions, if you would for a moment or two assume (only for the sake of argument) the truth of my story, I could tell you then why I came. As yet, I have scarcely approached the object of my errand."

"Money, I suppose!" said Percival. "Truth will out, sooner or later."

"Mr. Heron," said Dino, "are we to approach this subject as gentlemen or not? When I ask you for money, you will be at liberty to insult me, not before."

Again that tone of quiet superiority! Percival broke out angrily:—

"I will listen to nothing more from you. If you like to go with me to Brett and Grattan, we will go now; if not, you are a liar and an impostor, and I shall be happy to kick you out into the street."

Dino raised his head; a quick, involuntary movement ran through his frame, as if it thrilled with anger at the insulting words. Then his head sank; he quietly folded his arms across his breast, and stood as he used to stand when awaiting an order or an admonition from the Prior—tranquil, submissive, silent, but neither ill-humoured nor depressed. The very silence and submission enraged Percival the more.

"If you were of Scotch or English blood," he said, sharply, pausing as he crossed the room to look over his shoulder at the motionless figure in the black robe, with folded arms and bent head, "you would resent the words I have hastily used. That you don't do so is proof positive to my mind that you are no Luttrell."

"If I am a Luttrell, I trust that I am a Christian, too," said Dino, tranquilly. "It is a monk's duty—a monk's privilege—to bear insult."

"Detestable hypocrisy!" growled Percival to himself, as he stepped to the door and ostentatiously locked it, putting the key into his pocket, before he went into the adjoining bed-room to change his coat. "We'll soon see what Brett and Grattan say to him. Confound the fellow! Who would think that that smooth saintly face covered so much insolence! I should like to give him a good hiding. I should, indeed."

He returned to the sitting-room, unlocked the door, and ordered a servant to fetch a hansom-cab. Then he occupied himself by setting some of the books straight on the shelves, humming a tune to himself meanwhile, as if nobody else were in the room.

"Mr. Heron," Dino said at last, "I came to propose a compromise. Will you listen to it yet?"

"No," said Percival, drily. "I'll listen to nothing until I have seen Brett. If your case is as good as you declare it is, he will convince me; and then you can talk about compromises. I'm not in the humour for compromises just now."

He noticed that Dino's eyes were fixed earnestly upon something on his writing-table. He drew near enough to see that it was a cabinet photograph of Elizabeth Murray in a brass frame—a likeness which had just been taken, and which was considered remarkably good. The head and shoulders only were seen: the stately pose of the head, the slightly upturned profile, the rippling mass of hair resting on the fine shoulders, round which a shawl had been loosely draped—these constituted the chief points of a portrait which some people said was "idealised," but which, in the opinion of the Herons, only showed Elizabeth at her best. Percival coolly took up the photograph and marched away with it to another table, on which he laid it face downwards. He did not choose to have the Italian impostor scrutinising Elizabeth Murray's face. Dino understood the action, and liked him for it better than he had done as yet.

The drive to Messrs. Brett and Grattan's office was accomplished in perfect silence. The office was just closing, but Mr. Brett—the partner with whom Percival happened to be acquainted—was there, and received the visitors very civilly.

"You seem to know this—this gentleman, Mr. Brett?" began Percival, somewhat stiffly.

"I think I have that pleasure," said Mr. Brett, who was a big, red-faced, genial-looking man, as much unlike the typical lawyer of the novel and the stage, as a fox-hunting squire would have been. But Mr. Brett's reputation was assured. "I think I have that pleasure," he repeated, rubbing his hands, and looking as though he was enjoying the interview very much. "I have seen him before once or twice, have I not? eh, Mr.—er—Mr.——"

"Ah, that is just the point," said Percival. "Will you have the goodness to tell me the name of this—this person?"

Mr. Brett stopped rubbing his hands, and looked from Dino to Percival, and back again to Dino. The look said plainly enough, "What shall I tell him? How much does he know?"

"I wish to have no secrets from Mr. Heron," said Dino, simply. "He is the gentleman who is going to marry Miss Elizabeth Murray, and, of course, he is interested in the matter."

"Ah, of course, of course. I don't know that you ought to have brought him here," said Mr. Brett, shaking his head waggishly at Dino. "Against rules, you know: against custom: against precedent. But I believe you want to arrange matters pleasantly amongst yourselves. Well, Mr. Heron, I don't often like to commit myself to a statement, but, under the circumstances, I have no hesitation in saying that I believe this gentleman now before you, who called himself Vasari in Italy, is in reality——"

"Well?" said Percival, feeling his heart sink within him and speaking more impatiently than usual in consequence, "Well, Mr. Brett?"

"Is in reality," said Mr. Brett, with great deliberation and emphasis, "the second son of Edward and Margaret Luttrell, stolen from them in infancy—Brian Luttrell."



CHAPTER XXIX.

DINO'S PROPOSITION.

Dino turned away. He would not see the discomfiture plainly depicted upon Percival's face. Mr. Brett smiled pleasantly, and rubbed his hands.

"I see that it's a shock to you, Mr. Heron," he said. "Well, we can understand that. It's natural. Of course you thought Miss Murray a rich woman, as we all did, and it is a little disappointing——"

"Your remarks are offensive, sir, most offensive," said Percival, whose ire was thoroughly roused by this address. "I will bid you and your client good-evening. I have no more to say."

He made for the door, but Dino interposed.

"It is my turn now, I think, Mr. Heron. You insisted upon my coming here: I must insist now upon your seeing the documents I have to show you, and hearing what I have to say." And with a sharp click he turned the key in the lock, and stood with his back against the door.

"Tut, tut, tut!" said Mr. Brett; "there is no need to lock the door, no need of violence, Mr. Luttrell." In spite of himself, Percival started when he heard that name applied to the young monk before him. "Let the matter be settled amicably, by all means. You come from the young lady; you have authority to act for her, have you, Mr. Heron?"

"No," said Percival, sullenly. "She knows nothing about it."

"This is an informal interview," said Dino. "Mr. Heron refused to believe that you had undertaken my case, Mr. Brett, until he heard the fact from your own lips. I trust that he is now satisfied on that point, at any rate."

"Mr. Brett is an old acquaintance of mine. I have no reason to doubt his sincerity," said Percival, shortly and stiffly.

If Dino had hoped for anything like an apology, he was much mistaken. Percival's temper was rampant still.

"Then," said Dino, quitting the door, with the key in his hand, "we may as well proceed to look at those papers of mine, Mr. Brett. There can be no objection to Mr. Heron's seeing them, I suppose?"

The lawyer made some objections, but ended by producing from a black box, a bundle of papers, amongst which were the signed and witnessed confessions of Vincenza Vasari and a woman named Rosa Naldi, who had helped in the exchange of the children. Mr. Brett would not allow these papers to go out of his own hands, but he showed them to Percival, expounded their contents, and made comments upon the evidence, remarking amongst other things that Vincenza Vasari herself was expected in England in a week or two, Padre Cristoforo having taken charge of her, and undertaken to produce her at the fitting time.

"The evidence seems to be very conclusive," said Mr. Brett, with a pleasant smile. "In fact, Miss Murray has no case at all, and I dare say her legal adviser will know what advice to give her, Mr. Heron. Is there any question that you would like to ask?"

"No," said Percival, rising from his chair and glancing at Dino, who had stood by without speaking, throughout the lawyer's exposition of the papers. Then, very ungraciously: "I suppose I owe this gentleman in ecclesiastical attire—I hardly know what to call him—some sort of apology. I see that I was mistaken in what I said."

"My dear sir, I am sure Mr. Luttrell will make allowance for words spoken in the heat of the moment. No doubt it was a shock to you," said Mr. Brett, with ready sympathy, for which Percival hated him in his heart. His brow contracted, and he might have said something uncivil had Dino not come forward with a few quiet words, which diverted him from his purpose.

"If Mr. Heron thinks that he was mistaken," he said, "he will not refuse now to hear what I wished to say before we left his house. It will be simple justice to listen to me."

"Very well," answered Percival, frowning and looking down. "I will listen."

"Could we, for a few moments only, have a private room?" said Dino to Mr. Brett, with some embarrassment.

"You won't want me again?" said that cheerful gentleman, locking his desk. "Then, if you won't think me uncivil, I'll leave you altogether. My clerk is in the outer room, if you require him. I have a dinner engagement at eight o'clock which I should like to keep. Good-bye, Mr. Heron; sorry for your disappointment. Good-bye, Mr. Luttrell; I wish you wouldn't don that monkish dress of yours. It makes you look so un-English, you know. And, after all, you are not a monk, and never will be."

"Do not be too sure of that," said Dino, smiling.

Mr. Brett departed, and the two young men were left together. Percival was standing, vexation and impatience visible in every line of his handsome features. He gave his shoulders a shrug as the door closed behind Mr. Brett, and turned to the fire.

"And now, Mr. Heron," said Dino, "will you listen to my proposition?" He spoke in Italian, not English, and Percival replied in the same language.

"I have said I would listen."

"It refers to Brian Luttrell—the man who has borne that name so long that I think he should still be called by it."

"Ah! You have proved to me that Mr. Brett believes your story, and you have shown me that your case is a plausible one; but you have not proved to me that the man Stretton is identical with Brian Luttrell."

"It is not necessary that that should be proved just now. It can be proved; but we will pass over that point, if you please. I am sorry that what I have to say trenches somewhat on your private and personal affairs, Mr. Heron. I can only entreat your patience for a little time. Your marriage with Miss Murray——"

"Need that be dragged into the discussion?"

"It is exactly the point on which I wish to speak."

"Indeed." Percival pulled the lawyer's arm-chair towards him, seated himself, and pulled his moustache. "I understand. You are Mr. Stretton's emissary!"

"His emissary! No." The denial was sharply spoken. It was with a softening touch of emotion that Dino added—"I doubt whether he will easily forgive me. I have betrayed him. He does not dream that I would tell his secret."

"Are you friendly with him, then?"

"We are as brothers."

"Where is he?"

"In London."

"Not gone to America then?"

"Not yet. He starts in a few days, if not delayed. I am trying to keep him back."

"I knew that his pretence of going was a lie!" muttered Percival. "Of course, he never intended to leave the country!"

"Pardon me," said Dino, who had heard more than was quite meant for his ears. "The word 'lie' should never be uttered in connection with any of Brian's words or actions. He is the soul of honour."

Percival sneered bitterly. "As is shown——" he began, and then stopped short. But Dino understood.

"As is shown," he said, steadily, "by the fact that when he learnt, almost in the same moment, that Miss Murray was the person who had inherited his property, and that she was promised in marriage to yourself, he left the house in which she lived, and resolved to see her face no more. Was there no sense of honour shown in this? For he loved her as his own soul."

"Upon my word," explained Percival, with unconcealed annoyance, "you seem to know a great deal about Miss Murray's affairs and mine, Mr.—Mr.—Vasari. I am flattered by the interest they excite; but I don't see exactly what good is to come of it. I knew of Mr. Stretton's proposal long ago: a very insolent one, I considered it."

"Let me ask you a plain question, Mr. Heron. You love Miss Murray, do you not?"

"If I do," said Heron, haughtily, "it is not a question that I am disposed to answer at present."

"You love Miss Murray," said Dino, as if the question had been answered in the affirmative, "and there is nothing on earth so dear to me as my friend Brian Luttrell. It may seem strange to you that it should be so; but it is true. I have no wish to take his place in Scotland——"

"Then what are you doing in Mr. Brett's office?" asked Percival, bluntly.

For the first time Dino showed some embarrassment.

"I have been to blame," he said, hanging his head. "I was forced into this position—by others; and I had not the strength to free myself. But I will not wrong Brian any longer."

"If your story is proved, it will not be wronging Brian or anybody else to claim your rights. Take the Luttrell property, by all means, if it belongs to you. We shall do very well without it."

"Yes," said Dino, almost in a whisper, "you will do very well without it, if you are sure that she loves you."

Percival sat erect in his chair and looked Dino in the face with an expression which, for the first time, was devoid of scorn or anger. It was almost one of dread; it was certainly the look of one who prepares himself to receive a shock.

"What have you to tell me?" he said, in an unusually quiet voice. "Is she deceiving me? Is she corresponding with him? Have they made you their confidant?"

"No, no," cried Dino, earnestly. "How can you think so of a woman with a face like hers, of a man with a soul like Brian's? Even he has told me little; but he has told me more than he knows—and I have guessed the rest. If I had not known before, your face would have told me all."

"Tricked!" said Percival, falling back in his chair with a gesture of disgust. "I might have known as much. Well, sir, you are wrong. And Miss Murray's feelings are not to be canvassed in this way."

"You are right," said Dino; "we will not speak of her. We will speak of Brian, of my friend. He is not happy. He is very brave, but he is unhappy, too. Are we to rob him of both the things which might make his happiness? Are you to marry the woman that he loves, and am I to take to myself his inheritance?"

"Hardly to be called his inheritance, I think," said Percival, in a parenthetic way, "if he was the child of one Vincenza Vasari, and not of the Luttrells."

"I have my proposals to make," said Dino again lowering his voice. A nervous flush crept up to his forehead: his lips twitched behind the thin fingers with which he had partly covered them: the fingers trembled, too. Percival noted these signs of emotion without seeming to do so: he waited with some curiosity for the proposition. It startled him when it came. "I have been thinking that it would be better," said Dino, so simply and naturally that one would never have supposed that he was indicating a path of stern self-sacrifice, "if I were to withdraw all my claims to the estate, and you to relinquish Miss Murray's hand to Brian, then things would fall into their proper places, and he would not go to America."

Percival stared at him for a full minute before he seemed quite to understand all that was implied in this proposal; then he burst into a fit of scornful laughter.

"This is too absurd!" he cried. "Am I to give her up tamely because Mr. Brian Luttrell, as you call him, wishes to marry her? I am not so anxious to secure Mr. Brian Luttrell's happiness."

"But you wish to secure Miss Murray's, do you not?"

Percival became suddenly silent. Dino went on persuasively.

"I care little for the money and the lands which they say would be mine. My greatest wish in life is to become a monk. That is why I put on the gown that I used to wear, although I have taken no vows upon me yet, but I came to you in the spirit of one to whom earthly things are dead. Let me give up this estate to Brian, and make him happy with the woman that he loves. When he is married to Elizabeth you shall never see my face again."

"This is your proposition?" said Percival, after a little pause.

"Yes."

"If I give up Elizabeth"—he forgot that he had not meant to call her by her Christian name in Dino Vasari's presence—"you will give up your claim to the property?"

"Yes."

"And if I refuse, what will you do?"

"Fight the matter out by the help of the lawyers," said Dino, with an irrepressible flash of his dark eyes. And then there was another pause, during which Percival knitted his brows and gazed into the fire, and Dino never took his eyes from the other's face.

"Well, I refuse," said Percival at last, getting up and walking about the room, with an air of being more angry than he really was. "I will have none of your crooked Italian ways. Fair play is the best way of managing this matter. I refuse to carry out my share of this 'amicable arrangement,' as Brett would call it. Let us fight it out. Every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost."

The last sentence was an English one.

"But what satisfaction will the fight give to anybody?" said Dino, earnestly. "For myself—I may gain the estate—I probably shall do so—and what use shall I make of it? I might give it, perhaps, to Brian, but what pleasure would it be to him if she married you? Miss Murray will be left in poverty."

"And do you think she will care for that? Do you think I should care?"

"Money is a good thing: it is not well to despise it," said Dino. "Think what you are doing. If you refuse my proposition you deprive Miss Murray of her estate, and—I leave you to decide whether you deprive her of her happiness."

"Miss Murray can refuse me if she chooses," said Percival, shortly. "I should be a great fool if I handed her over at your recommendation to a man that I know nothing about. Besides, you could not do it. This Italian friend of yours, this Prior of San Stefano, would not let the matter fall through. He and Brett would bring forward the witnesses——"

Dino turned his eyes slowly upon him with a curiously subtle look.

"No," he said. "I have received news to-day which puts the matter completely in my own hands. Vincenza Vasari is dead: Rosa Naldi is dying. They were in a train when a railway accident took place. They will never be able to appear as witnesses."

"But they made depositions——"

"Yes. I believe these depositions would establish the case. But depositions are written upon paper, and hearsay evidence is not admitted. Nobody could prove it, if I did not wish it to be proved."

"I doubt whether it could be proved at all," said Percival, hesitatingly. "Of course, it would make Miss Murray uncomfortable. And if that other Brian Luttrell is living still, the money would go back to him. Would he divide it with you, do you think, if he got it, even as you would share it all with him?"

"I believe so," answered Dino. "But I should not want it—unless it were to give to the monastery; and San Stefano is already rich. A monk has no wants."

"But I am not a monk. There lies the unfairness of your proposal. You give up what you care for very little: I am to give up what is dearer than the whole world to me. No; I won't do it. It's absurd."

"Is this your answer, Mr. Heron?" said Dino. "Will you sacrifice Brian's happiness—I say nothing of her's, for you understand her best—for your own?"

"Yes, I will," Percival declared, roundly. "No man is called upon to give up his life for another without good reason. Your friend is nothing to me. I'll get what I can out of the world for myself. It is little enough, but I cannot be expected to surrender it for some ridiculous notion of unselfishness. I never professed to be unselfish in my life. Mr. Stretton is a man to whom I owe a grudge. I acknowledge it."

Dino sighed heavily. The shade of disappointment upon his face was so deep that Heron felt some pity for him—all the more because he believed that the monk was destined to deeper disappointment still. He turned to him with almost a friendly look.

"You can't expect extraordinary motives from an ordinary man like me," he said. "I must say in all fairness that you have made a generous proposal. If I spoke too violently and hastily, I hope you will overlook it. I was rather beside myself with rage—though not with the sort of regret which Mr. Brett kindly attributes to me."

"I understood that," said Dino.

By a sudden impulse Percival held out his hand. It was a strong testimony to Dino's earnestness and simplicity of character that the two parted friends after such a stormy interview.

As they went out of the office together Percival said, abruptly:—

"Where are you staying?"

Dino named the place.

"With the man you call Brian Luttrell?"

"With Brian Luttrell."

"What is the next thing you mean to do?"

"I must tell Brian that I have betrayed his secret."

"Oh, he won't be very angry with you for that!" laughed Percival.

Dino shook his head. He was not so sure.

As soon as they had separated, Percival went off at a swinging pace for a long walk. It was his usual way of getting rid of annoyance or excitement; and he was vexed to find that he could not easily shake off the effects that his conversation with Dino Vasari had produced upon his mind. The unselfishness, the devotion, of this man—younger than himself, with a brilliant future before him if only he chose to take advantage of it—appealed powerfully to his imagination. He tried to laugh at it: he called Dino hard names—"Quixotic fool," "dreamer," and "enthusiast"—but he could not forget that an ideal of conduct had been presented to his eyes, which was far higher than any which he should have thought possible for himself, and by a man upon whose profession of faith and calling he looked with profound contempt.

He tried to disbelieve the story that he had been told. He tried hard to think that the man whom Elizabeth loved could not be Brian Luttrell. He strove to convince himself that Elizabeth would be happier with him than with the man she loved. Last of all he struggled desperately with the conviction that it was his highest duty to tell her the whole story, set her free, and let Brian marry her if he chose. With the respective claims of Dino, Brian, and Elizabeth to the estate, he felt that he had no need to interfere. They must settle it amongst themselves.

Of one thing he wanted to make sure. Was the tutor who had come with the Herons from Italy indeed Brian Luttrell? How could he ascertain?

Chance favoured him, he thought. On the following morning he met Hugo Luttrell in town, and accosted him with unusual eagerness.

"I've an odd question to ask you," he said, "but I have a strong reason for it. You saw the tutor at Strathleckie when you were in Scotland?"

"Yes," said Hugo, looking at him restlessly out of his long, dark eyes.

"Had you any idea that Stretton was not his real name?"

Hugo paused before he replied.

"It is rather an odd question, certainly," he said, with a temporising smile. "May I ask what you want to know for?"

"I was told that he came to the house under a feigned name: that's all."

"Who told you so?"

"Oh, a person who knew him."

"An Italian? A priest?"

Hugo was thinking of the possibility of Father Christoforo's having made his way to England.

"Yes," said Percival, dubiously. "A Benedictine monk, I believe. He hinted that you knew Stretton's real name."

"Quite a mistake," said Hugo. "I know nothing about him. But your priest sounds romantic. An old fellow, isn't he, with grey hair?"

"Not at all: young and slight, with dark eyes and rather a finely-cut face. Calls himself Dino Vasari or some such name."

Hugo started: a yellowish pallor overspread his face. For a moment he stopped short in the street: then hurried on so fast that Percival was left a few steps behind.

"What's the matter? So you know him?" said Heron, overtaking him by a few vigorous strides.

"A little. He's the biggest scoundrel I ever met," replied Hugo, slackening his pace and trying to speak easily. "I was surprised at his being in England, that was all. Do you know where he lives, that I may avoid the street!" he added, laughing.

Percival told him, wondering at his evident agitation.

"Then you can't tell me anything about Stretton?" he said, as they came to a building which he was about to enter.

"Nothing. Wish I could," said Hugo, turning away.

"So he escaped, after all!" he murmured to himself, as he walked down the street, with an occasional nervous glance to the right and left. "I thought I had done my work effectually: I did not know I was such a bungler. Does he guess who attacked him, I wonder? I suppose not, or I should have heard of the matter before now. Fortunate that I took the precaution of drugging him first. What an escape! And he has got hold of Heron! I shall have to make sure of the old lady pretty soon, or I foresee that Netherglen—and Kitty—never will be mine."



CHAPTER XXX.

FRIENDS AND BROTHERS.

In a little room on the second-floor of a London lodging-house near Manchester-square, Brian Luttrell was packing a box, with the few scanty possessions that he called his own. He had little light to see by, for the slender, tallow candle burnt with a very uncertain flame: the glare of the gas lamps in the street gave almost a better light. The floor was uncarpeted, the furniture scanty and poor: the fire in the grate smouldered miserably, and languished for want of fuel. But there was a contented look on Brian's face. He even whistled and hummed to himself as he packed his box, and though the tune broke down, and ended with a sigh, it showed a mind more at ease than Brian's had been for many a long day.

"Heigho!" he said, rising from his task, and giving the box a shove with his foot into a corner, "I wonder where Dino is? He ought not to be out so late with that cough of his. I suppose he has gone to Brett and Grattan's. I am glad the dear fellow has put himself into their hands. Right ought to be done: she would have said so herself, and I know Dino will be generous. It would suit him very well to take a money compensation, and let her continue to reign, with glories somewhat shorn, however, at Strathleckie. I am afraid he will do nothing but enrich San Stefano with his inheritance. He certainly will not settle down at Netherglen as a country squire.

"What will my mother say? Pooh! I must get out of that habit of calling her my mother. She is no relation of mine, as she herself told me. Mrs. Luttrell!—it sounds a little odd. Odder, too, to think that I must never sign myself Brian Luttrell any more. Bernardino Vasari! I think I might as well stick to the plain John Stretton, which I adopted on the spur of the moment at San Stefano. I suppose I shall soon have to meet the woman who calls herself—who is—my mother. I will say nothing harsh or unkind to her, poor thing! She has done herself a greater injury than she has done me."

So he meditated, with his face bent over his folded arms upon the mantelpiece. A slow step on the stair roused him, he poked the fire vigorously, lighted another candle, and then opened the door.

"Is that you, Dino?" he said. "Where have you been for the last three hours?"

Dino it was. He came in without speaking, and dropped into a chair, as if exhausted with fatigue. Brian repeated his question, but when Dino tried to answer it, a fit of coughing choked his words. It lasted several minutes, and left him panting, with the perspiration standing in great beads upon his brow.

With a grave and anxious face Brian brought him some water, wrapped a cloak round his shaking shoulders, and stood by him, waiting for the paroxysm of coughing to abate. Dino's cough was seldom more than the little hacking one, which the wound in his side seemed to have left, but it was always apt to grow worse in cold or foggy weather, and at times increased to positive violence. Brian, who had visited him regularly while he was in hospital, and nursed him with a woman's tenderness as soon as he was discharged from it, had never known it to be so bad as it was on this occasion.

"You've been overdoing yourself, old fellow," he said, affectionately, when Dino was able to look up and smile. "You have been out too late. And this den of mine is not the place for you. You must clear out of it as soon as you can."

"Not as long as you are here," said Dino.

"That was all very well as long as we could remain unknown. But now that Brett and Grattan consent to take up your case, as I knew they would all along, they will want to see you: your friends and relations will want to visit you; and you must not be found here with me. I'll settle you in new lodgings before I sail. There's a comfortable place in Piccadilly that I used to know, with a landlady who is honest and kind."

"Too expensive for me," Dino murmured, with a pleasant light in his eyes, as Brian made preparations for their evening meal, with a skill acquired by recent practice.

"You forget that your expenses will be paid out of the estate," said Brian, "in the long run. Did not Brett offer to advance you funds if you wanted them?"

"Yes, and I declined them. I had enough from Father Christoforo," answered Dino, rather faintly. "I did not like to run the risk of spending what I might not be able to repay."

"Brett would not have offered you money if he did not feel very sure of his case. There can be no doubt of that," said Brian, as he set two cracked tea-cups on the table, and produced a couple of chops and a frying-pan from a cupboard. "You need not be afraid."

For some minutes the sound of hissing and spluttering that came from the frying-pan effectually prevented any further attempts at conversation. When the cooking was over, Dino again addressed his friend.

"Do you want to know what I have been doing?"

"Yes, I mean you to give an account of yourself. But not until you have had some food. Eat and drink first; then talk."

Dino smiled and came to the table. But he had no appetite: he swallowed a few mouthfuls, evidently to please Brian only; then went back to the solitary arm-chair by the fire, and closed his eyes.

Brian did not disturb him. It was plain that Dino, not yet strong after his accident, had wearied himself out. He was glad, however, when the young man roused himself from a light and fitful doze, and said in his naturally tranquil voice:—

"I am ready to give an account of myself, as you call it, now."

"Then tell me," said Brian, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, and looking down upon the pale, somewhat emaciated countenance, with a tender smile, "what you mean by going about London in a dress which I thought that you had renounced for ever?"

"It only means," said Dino, returning the smile, "that you were mistaken. I had not renounced it, and I think that I shall keep to it now."

"You can hardly do that in your position," said Brian, quietly.

"My position! What is that to me? 'I had rather be a door-keeper in the house of the Lord'—you know what I mean: I have said it all to you before. If I go back to Italy, Brian, and the case falls through, as it may do through lack of witnesses, will you not take your own again?"

"And turn out Miss Murray? Certainly not." Then, after a pause, Brian asked, rather sternly, "What do you mean by the lack of witnesses? There are plenty of witnesses. There is—my—my mother—for one."

"No. She is dead."

"Dead. Vincenza Vasari dead?"

Dino recounted to him briefly enough the details of the catastrophe, but acknowledged, in reply to his quick questions, that there was no necessity for his claim to be given up on account of the death of these two persons. Mr. Brett, with whom he had conferred before visiting Percival Heron, had assured him that there could be no doubt of his identity with the child whom Mrs. Luttrell had given Vincenza to nurse; and, knowing the circumstances, he thought it probable that the law-suit would be an amicable one, and that Miss Murray would consent to a compromise. All this, Dino repeated, though with some reluctance, to his friend.

"You see, Brian," he continued, "there will be no reason for your hiding yourself if my case is proved. You would not be turning out Miss Murray or anybody else. You would be my friend, my brother, my helper. Will you not stay in England and be all this to me? I ask you, as I have asked you many times before, but I ask it now for the last time. Stay with me, and let it be no secret that you are living still."

"I can't do it, Dino. I must go. You promised not to ask it of me again, dear old fellow."

"Let me come with you, then. We will both leave Miss Murray to enjoy her inheritance in peace."

"No, that would not be just."

"Just! What do I care for justice?" said Dino, indignantly, while his eyes grew dark and his cheeks crimson with passionate feeling. "I care for you, for her, for the happiness of you both. Can I do nothing towards it?"

"Nothing, I think, Dino mio."

"But you will stay with me until you go? You will not cast me off as you have cast off your other friends? Promise me."

"I promise you, Dino," said Brian, laying his hand soothingly on the other's shoulder. It seemed to him that Dino must be suffering from fever; that he was taking a morbidly exaggerated view of matters. But his next words showed that his excitement proceeded from no merely physical cause.

"I have done you no harm, at any rate," he said, rising and holding Brian's hand between his own. "I have made up my mind. I will have none of this inheritance. It shall either be yours or hers. I do not want it. And I have taken the first step towards ridding myself of it."

"What have you done?" said Brian.

"Will you ever forgive me?" asked Dino, looking half-sadly, half-doubtfully, into his face. "I am not sure that you ever will. I have betrayed you. I have said that you were alive."

Brian's face first turned red, then deathly pale. He withdrew his hand from Dino's grasp, and took a backward step.

"You!" he said, in a stifled voice. "You! whom I thought to be my friend!"

"I am your friend still," said Dino.

Brian resumed his place by the mantelpiece, and played mechanically with the ornaments upon it. His face was pale still, but a little smile had begun to curve his lips.

"So," he said, slowly, "my deep-laid plans are frustrated, it seems. I did not think you would have done this, Dino. I took a good deal of trouble with my arrangements."

The tone of gentle satire went to Dino's heart. He looked appealingly at Brian, but did not speak.

"You have made me look like a very big fool," said Brian, quietly, "and all to no purpose. You can't make me stay in England, you know, or present myself to be recognised by Mrs. Luttrell, and old Colquhoun. I shall vanish to South America under another name, and leave no trace behind, and the only result of your communication will be to disturb people's minds a little, and to make them suppose that I had repented of my very harmless deception, and was trying to get money out of you and Miss Murray."

"Nobody would think so who knows you."

"Who does know me? Not even you, Dino, if you think I would take advantage of what you have said to-night. Go to-morrow, and tell Brett that you were mistaken. It is Brett you have told, of course."

"It is not Brett."

"Who then?"

"Mr. Percival Heron," said Dino, looking him steadily in the face.

Brian drew himself up into an upright posture, with an ejaculation of astonishment. "Good Heavens, Dino! What have you been doing?"

"My duty," answered Dino.

"Your duty! Good Heavens!—unpardonable interference I should call it from any one but you. You don't understand the ways of the world! How should you, fresh from a Romish seminary? But you should understand that it is wiser, safer, not to meddle with the affairs of other people."

"Your affairs are mine," said Dino, with his eyes on the ground.

Brian laughed bitterly. "Hardly, I think. I have given no one any authority to act for me. I may manage my affairs badly, but on the whole I must manage them for myself."

"I knew that I should have to bear your reproaches," said Dino, with folded arms and downcast eyes. Then, after a pause, during which Brian walked up and down the room impatiently, he added in a lower tone, "But I did not think that they would have been so bitter."

Brian stopped short and looked at him, then came and laid his hand gently on his shoulder. "Poor Dino!" he said, "I ought to remember how unlike all the rest of the world you are. Forgive me. I did not mean to hurt you. No doubt you thought that you were acting for the best."

Dino looked up, and met the somewhat melancholy kindness of Brian's gaze. His heart was already full: his impulsive nature was longing to assert itself: with one great sob he threw his arms round Brian's neck, and fell weeping upon his shoulder.

"But, my dear Dino," said Brian, when the storm (the reason of which he understood very imperfectly) had subsided, "you must see that this communication of my secret to Mr. Heron will make a difference in my plans."

"What difference?"

"I must start to-morrow instead of next week."

"No, Brian, no."

"I must, indeed. Heron will tell your story to Brett, to Colquhoun, to Mrs. Luttrell, to Miss Murray. He may have telegraphed it already. It is very important to him, because, you see," said Brian, with a sad half-smile, "he is going to marry Miss Murray, and, unless he knows your history, he will think that my existence will deprive her of her fortune."

"I do not believe he will tell your story to anyone."

"Dino, caro mio! Heron is a man of honour. He can do nothing less, unfortunately."

"I think he will do less. I think that no word of what I have told him will pass his lips."

"It would be impossible for him to keep silence," remarked Brian, coldly, and Dino said nothing more.

It was after a long silence, when the candle had died out, and the fire had grown so dim that they could not see each other's faces, that Brian said in a low, but quiet tone—

"Did you tell him why I left Strathleckie?"

"Yes, I did."

Brian suppressed a vexed exclamation. It was no use trying to make Dino understand his position.

"What did he say?" he asked.

"He knew already."

"Ah! Yes. So I should have supposed." And there the conversation ended.

Long after Dino was tranquilly sleeping, Brian Luttrell sat by the ricketty round table in the middle of the room labouring at the composition of one or two letters, which seemed very difficult to write. Sheet after sheet was torn up and thrown aside. The grey dawn was creeping in at the window before the last word was written, and the letters placed within their respective envelopes. Slowly and carefully he wrote the address of the longest letter—wrote it, as he thought, for the last time—Mrs. Luttrell, Netherglen, Dunmuir. Then he stole quietly out of the house, and slipped it into the nearest pillar-box. The other letter—a few lines merely—he put in his pocket, unaddressed. On his return he entered the tiny slip of a room which Dino occupied, fearing lest his movements should have disturbed the sleeper. But Dino had not stirred. Brian stood and looked at him for a little while, thinking of the circumstances in which they had first met, of the strange bond which subsisted between them, and lastly of the curious betrayal of his confidence, so unlike Dino's usual conduct, which Brian charitably set down to ignorance of English customs and absence of English reserve. He guessed no finer motive, and his mouth curled with an irrepressible, if somewhat mournful, smile, as he turned away, murmuring to himself:—

"I have had my revenge."

He did not leave England next day. Dino's entreaties weighed with him; and he knew also that he himself had acted in a way which was likely to nullify his friend's endeavours to reinstate him in his old position. He waited with more curiosity than apprehension for the letter, the telegram, the visit, that would assure him of Percival's uprightness. For Brian had no doubt in his own mind as to what Percival Heron ought to do. If he learnt that Brian Luttrell was still living, he ought to communicate the fact to Mr. Colquhoun at least. And if Mr. Colquhoun were the kindly old man that he used to be, he would probably hasten to London to shake hands once more with the boy that he had known and loved in early days. Brian was so certain of this that he caught himself listening for the door-bell, and rehearsing the sentences with which he should excuse his conduct to his kind, old friend.

But two days passed away, and he watched in vain. No message, no visitor, came to show him that Percival Heron had told the story. Perhaps, however, he had written it in a letter. Brian silently calculated the time that a letter and its answer would take. He found that by post it was not possible to get a reply until an hour after the time at which he was to start.

In those two days Dino had an interview with Mr. Brett, from which he returned looking anxious and uneasy. He told Brian, however, nothing of its import, and Brian did not choose to ask. The day and the hour of Brian's departure came without further conversation between them on the subject which was, perhaps, nearer than any other to their hearts. Dino wanted to accompany his friend to the ship by which he was to sail: but Brian steadily refused to let him do so. It was strange to see the relation between these two. In spite of his youth, Dino usually inspired a feeling of respect in the minds of other men: his peculiarly grave and tranquil manner made him appear older and more experienced than he really was. But with Brian, he fell naturally into the position of a younger brother: he seemed to take a delight in leaning upon Brian's judgment, and surrendering his own will. He had been brought up to depend upon others in this way all through his life; but Brian saw clearly enough that the habit was contrary to his native temperament, and that, when once freed from the leading-strings in which he had hitherto been kept, he would certainly prove himself a man of remarkably strong and clear judgment. It was this conviction that caused Brian to persist in his intention of going to South America: Dino would do better when left to himself, than when leaning upon Brian, as his affection led him to do.

"You will come back," said Dino, in a tone that admitted of no contradiction. "I know you will come back."

"Dino mio, you will come to see me some day, perhaps," said Brian. "Listen. I leave their future in your care. Do you understand? Make it possible for them to be happy."

"I will do what is possible to bring you home again."

"Caro mio, that is not possible," said Brian. "Do not try. You see this letter? Keep it until I have been an hour gone; then open it. Will you promise me that?"

"I promise."

"And now good-bye. Success and good fortune to you," said Brian, trying to smile. "When we meet again——"

"Shall we ever meet again?" said Dino, with one arm round Brian's neck, with his eyes looking straight into Brian's, with a look of pathetic longing which his friend never could forget. "Or is it a last farewell? Brother—my brother—God bless thee, and bring thee home at last." But it was of no earthly home that Dino thought.

And then they parted.

It was more than an hour before Dino thought of opening the letter which Brian had left with him. It ran as follows:—

"Dino mio, pardon me if I have done wrongly. You told my story and I have told yours. I feared lest you, in your generosity, should hide the truth, and therefore I have written fully to your mother. Go to her if she sends for you, and remember that she has suffered much. I have told her that you have the proofs: show them to her, and she will be convinced. God bless you, my only friend and brother."

Dino's head dropped upon his hands. Were all his efforts vain to free himself from the burden of a wealth which he did not desire? The Prior of San Stefano had forced him into the position of a claimant to the estate. With his long-formed habits of obedience it seemed impossible to gainsay the Prior's will. Here, in England, it was easier. And Dino was more and more resolved to take his own way.

A letter was brought to him at that moment. He opened it, and let his eyes run mechanically down the sheet. Then he started violently, and read it again with more attention. It contained one sentence and a signature:—

"If Dino Vasari of San Stefano will visit me at Netherglen, I will hear what he has to say.

"Margaret Luttrell."

Could he have expected more? And yet, to his excited fancy, the words seemed cold and hard.



CHAPTER XXXI.

ACCUSER AND ACCUSED.

There had been solemn council in the house of Netherglen. Mrs. Luttrell and Mr. Colquhoun had held long interviews; letters and papers of all sorts had been produced and compared; the dressing-room door was closed against all comers, and even Angela was excluded. Hugo was once summoned, and came away from the conference with the air of a desperate man at once baffled and fierce. He lurked about the dark corners of the house, as if he were afraid to appear in the light of the day; but he took no one into his confidence. Fortune, character, life itself, perhaps, seemed to him to be hanging on a thread. For, if Dino Vasari remembered his treachery and exposed it, he knew that he should be ruined and disgraced. And he was resolved not to survive any such public exposure. He would die by his own hand rather than stand in the dock as a would-be murderer.

Even if things were not so bad as that, he did not see how he was to exonerate himself from another charge; a minor one, indeed, but one which might make him look very black in some people's eyes. He had known of Dino's claims for many weeks, as well as of Brian's existence. Why had he told no one of his discoveries? What if Dino spoke of the tissue of lies which he had concocted, the forgery of Brian's handwriting, in the interview which they had had in Tarragon-street? Fortunately, Dino had burned the letter, and there had been no auditor of the conversation. Of course, he must deny that he had known anything of the matter. Dino could prove nothing against him; he could only make assertions. But assertions were awkward things sometimes.

So Hugo skulked and frowned and listened, and was told nothing definite; but saw by the light of previous knowledge that there was great excitement in the bosoms of his aunt and the family lawyer. There were letters and telegrams sent off, and Hugo was disgusted to find that he could not catch sight of their addresses, much less of their contents. Mr. Colquhoun looked gloomy; Mrs. Luttrell sternly exultant. What was going on? Was Brian coming home; or was Dino to be recognised in Brian's place?

Hugo knew nothing. But one fine autumn morning, as he was standing in the garden at Netherglen, he saw a dog-cart turn in at the gate, a dog-cart in which four men had with some difficulty squeezed themselves—the driver, Mr. Colquhoun, Dino Vasari, and a red-faced man, whom Hugo recognised, after a minute's hesitation, as the well-known solicitor, Mr. Brett.

Hugo drew back into the shrubbery and waited. He dared not show himself. He was trembling in every limb. The hour of his disgrace was drawing near.

Should he take advantage of the moment, and leave Netherglen at once, or should he wait and face it out? After a little reflection he determined to wait. From what he had seen of Dino Vasari he fancied that it would not be easy to manage him. Yet he seemed to be a simple-minded youth, fresh from the precincts of a monastery: he could surely by degrees be cajoled or bullied into silence. If he did accuse Hugo of treachery, it was better, perhaps, that the accused should be on the spot to justify himself. If only Hugo could see him before the story had been told to Mrs. Luttrell!

He loitered about the house for some time, then went to his own room, and began to pack up various articles which he should wish to take away with him, if Mrs. Luttrell expelled him from the house. At every sound upon the stairs, he paused in his occupation and looked around nervously. When the luncheon-bell rang he actually dared not go down to the dining-room. He summoned a servant, and ordered brandy and water and a biscuit, alleging I an attack of illness as an excuse for his non-appearance. And, indeed, the suspense and anxiety which he was enduring made him feel and look really ill. He was sick with the agony of his dread.

The afternoon wore on. His window commanded a view of the drive: he was sure that the guests had not yet left the house. It was four o'clock when somebody at length approached his door, knocked, and then shook the door-handle.

"Hugo! Are you there?" It was Mr. Colquhoun's voice. "Can't you open the door?"

Hugo hesitated a moment: then turned the key, leaving Mr. Colquhoun to enter if he pleased. He came in looking rather astonished at this mode of admittance.

"So! It's sick, you are, is it? Well, I don't exactly wonder at that. You've lost your chance of Netherglen, Mr. Hugo Luttrell."

Hugo's face grew livid. He looked to Mr. Colquhoun for explanation, but did not speak.

"It's just the most remarkable coincidence I ever heard of," said Mr. Colquhoun, seating himself in the least comfortable chair the room afforded, and rubbing his forehead with a great, red silk-handkerchief. "Brian alive, and meeting with the very man who had a claim to the estate! Though, of course, if one thinks of it, it is only natural they should meet, when Mrs. Luttrell, poor body, had been fool enough to send Brian to San Stefano, the very place where the child was brought up. You know the story?"

"No," said Hugo. His heart began to beat wildly. Had Dino kept silence after all?

Mr. Colquhoun launched forth upon the whole history, to which Hugo listened without a word of comment. He was leaning against the window-frame, in a position from which he could still see the drive, and his face was so white that Mr. Colquhoun at last was struck by its pallor.

"Man alive, are you going to faint, Hugo? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I've had a headache. Then my aunt is satisfied as to the genuineness of this claim?"

"Satisfied! She's more than satisfied," said the old lawyer, with a groan. "I doubt myself whether the court will see the matter in the same light. If Miss Murray, or if Brian Luttrell, would make a good fight, I don't believe this Italian fellow would win the case. He might. Brett says he would; But Brian—God bless him! he might have told me he was living still—Brian has gone off to America, poor lad! and Elizabeth Murray—well, I'll make her fight, if I can, but I doubt—I doubt."

"My aunt wants this fellow to have Strathleckie and Netherglen, too, then?"

"Yes, she does; so you are cut out there, Hugo. Don't build on Netherglen, if Margaret Luttrell's own son is living. I must be going: Brett's to dine with me. I used to know him in London."

"Is Dino Vasari staying here, then?"

Mr. Colquhoun raised a warning finger. "You'll have to learn to call him by another name, if he stays in this house, young man," he said. "He declines to be called Brian—he has that much good sense—but it seems that Dino is short for Bernardino, or some such mouthful, and we're to call him Bernard to avoid confusion. Bernard Luttrell—humph!—I don't know whether he will stay the night or not. We met Miss Murray on our way up. The young man looked at her uncommonly hard, and asked who she was. I think he was rather struck with her. Good-bye, Hugo; take care of yourself, and don't be too downhearted. Poor Brian always told me to look after you, and I will." But the assurance did not carry the consolation to Hugo's mind which Mr. Colquhoun intended.

The two lawyers drove away to Dunmuir together. Hugo watched the red lamps of the dog-cart down the road, and then turned away from the window with a gnawing sense of anxiety, which grew more imperious every moment. He felt that he must do something to relieve it. He knew where the interview with Dino was taking place. Mrs. Luttrell had lately been growing somewhat infirm: a slight stroke of paralysis, dangerous only in that it was probably the precursor of other attacks, had rendered locomotion particularly distasteful to her. She did not like to feel that she was dependent upon others for aid, and, therefore, sat usually in a wheeled chair in her dressing-room, and it was the most easily accessible room from her sleeping apartment. She was in her dressing-room now, and Dino Vasari was with her.

Hugo stole quietly through the passage until he reached the door of Mrs. Luttrell's bed-room, which was ajar. He slipped into the room and looked round. It was dimly lighted by the red glow of the fire, and by this dim light he saw that the door into the dressing-room was also not quite closed. He could hear the sound of voices. He paused a moment, and then advanced. There was a high screen near the door, of which one fold was so close to the wall that only a slight figure could slip behind it, though, when once behind there, it would be entirely hidden. Hugo measured it with his eye: he would have to pass the aperture of the door to reach it, but a cautious glance from a distance assured him that both Mrs. Luttrell and Dino had their backs to him and could not see. He ensconced himself, therefore, between the screen and the wall: he could see nothing, but every word fell distinctly upon his ear.

"Sit down beside me," Mrs. Luttrell was saying—how could her voice have grown so tender?—"and tell me everything about your past life. I knew—I always knew—that that other child was not my son. I have my own Brian now. Call me mother: it is long since I have heard the word."

"Mother!" Dino's musical tones were tremulous. "My mother! I have thought of her all my life."

"Ay, my poor son, and but for the wickedness of others, I might have seen and known you years ago. I had an interloper in my house throughout all those years, and he worked me the bitterest sorrow of my life."

"Do not speak so of Brian, mother," said Dino, gently. "He loved you—and he loved Richard. His loss—his grief—has been greater even than yours."

"How dare you say so to me?" said Mrs. Luttrell, with a momentary return to her old, grim tones. Then, immediately softening them—"But you may say anything you like. It is pleasure enough to hear your voice. You must stay with me, Brian, and let me feast my eyes on you for a time. I have no patience, no moderation left: 'my son was dead and is alive again, he was lost and is found.'"

He raised his mother's hand and kissed it silently. The action would, of course, have been lost upon Hugo, as he could not see the pair, but for Mrs. Luttrell's next words.

"Nay," she said, "kiss me on the cheek, not on the hand, Brian. I let Hugo Luttrell do it, because of his foreign blood; but you have only a foreign training which you must forget. They said something about your wearing a priest's dress: I am glad you did not wear it here, for you would have been mobbed in Dunmuir. It's a sad pity that you're a Papist, Brian; but we must set Mr. Drummond, our minister, to talk to you, and he'll soon show you the error of your ways."

"I shall be very glad to hear what Mr. Drummond has to say," said Dino, with all the courtesy which his monastic training had instilled; "but I fear that he will have his labour thrown away. And I have one or two things to tell you, mother, now that those gentlemen have gone. If I am to disappoint you, let me do it at once, so that you may understand."

"Disappoint me? and how can you do that?" asked Mrs. Luttrell, scornfully. "Perhaps you mean that you will winter in the South! If your health requires it, do you think I would stand in the way? You have a sickly air, but it makes you all the more like one whom I well remember—your father's brother, who died of a decline in early youth. No, go if you like; I will not tie you down. You can come back in the summer, and then we will think about your settling down and marrying. There are plenty of nice girls in the neighbourhood, though none so good as Angela, nor perhaps so handsome as Elizabeth Murray."

"Mother, I shall never marry."

"Not marry? and why not?" cried Mrs. Luttrell, indignantly. "But you say this to tease me only; being a Luttrell—the only Luttrell, indeed, save Hugo, that remains—you must marry and continue the family."

"I shall never marry," said Dino, with a firmness which at last seemed to make an impression upon Mrs. Luttrell, "because I am going to be a monk."

Hugo could not stifle a quick catching of his breath. Did Dino mean what he said? And what effect would this decision have upon the lives of the many persons whose future seemed to be bound up with his? What would Mrs. Luttrell say?

At first she said nothing. And then Dino's voice was heard again.

"Mother, my mother, do not look at me like that. I must follow my vocation. I would have given myself years ago, but I was not allowed. The Prior will receive me now. And nothing on earth will turn me from my resolution. I have made up my mind."

"What!" said Mrs. Luttrell, very slowly. "You will desert me too, after all these years!"

Dino answered by repeating in Latin the words—"He that loveth father or mother more than Me, is not worthy of Me." But Mrs. Luttrell interrupted him angrily.

"I want none of your Latin gibberish," she said. "I want plain commonsense. If you go into a monastery, do you intend to give the property to the monks? Perhaps you want to turn Netherglen into a convent, and establish a priory at Strathleckie? Well, I cannot prevent you. What fools we are to think that there is any happiness in this world!"

"Mother!" said Dino, and his voice was very gentle, "let me speak to you of another before we talk about the estates. Let me speak to you of Brian."

"Brian!" Her voice had a checked tone for a moment; then she recovered herself and spoke in her usual harsh way. "I know no one of that name but you."

"I mean my friend whom you thought to be your son for so many years, mother. Have you no tenderness for him? Do you not think of him with a little love and pity? Let me tell you what he suffered. When he came to us first at San Stefano he was nearly dying of grief. It was long before we nursed him back to health. When I think how we all learnt to love him, mother, I cannot but believe that you must love him, too."

"I never loved him," said Mrs. Luttrell. "He stood in your place. If you had a spark of proper pride in you, you would know that he was your enemy, and you will feel towards him as I do."

"He is an enemy that I have learned to love," answered Dino. "At any rate, mother"—his voice always softened when he called her by that name—"at any rate, you will try to love him now."

"Why now?" She asked the question sharply.

"Because I mean him to fill my place."

There was a little silence, in which the fall of a cinder from the grate could be distinctly heard. Then Mrs. Luttrell uttered a long, low moan. "Oh, my God!" she said. "What have I done that I should be tormented in this way?"

"Mother, mother, do not say so," said Dino, evidently with deep emotion. Then, in a lower and more earnest voice, he added—"Perhaps if you had tried to love the child that Vincenza placed within your arms that day, you would have felt joy and not sorrow now."

"Do you dare to rebuke your mother?" said Mrs. Luttrell, fiercely. "If I had loved that child, I would never have acknowledged you to-day. Not though all the witnesses in the world swore to your story."

"That perhaps would have been the better for me," said Dino, softly. "Mother, I am going away from you for ever; let me leave you another son. He has never grieved you willingly; forgive him for those misfortunes which he could not help; love him instead of me."

"Never!"

"He has gone to the other side of the world, but I think he would come back if he knew that you had need of him. Let me send him a line, a word, from you: make him the master of Netherglen, and let me go in peace."

"I will not hear his name, I will not tolerate his presence within these walls," cried Mrs. Luttrell, passionately. "He was never dear to me, never; and he is hateful to me now. He has robbed me of both my sons: his hand struck Richard down, and for twenty-three years he usurped your place. I will never see him again. I will never forgive him so long as my tongue can speak."

"Then may God forgive you," said Dino, in a strangely solemn voice, "for you are doing a worse injustice, a worse wrong, than that done by the poor woman who tried to put her child in your son's place. Have you held that child upon your knee, kissed his face, and seen him grow up to manhood, without a particle of love for him in your heart? Did you send him away from you with bitter reproaches, because of the accident which he would have given his own life to prevent? You have spoilt his life, and you do not care. Your heart is hard then, and God will not let that hardness go unpunished. Mother, pray that his judgments may not descend upon you for this."

"You have no right to talk to me in that way," said Mrs. Luttrell, with a great effort. "I have not been unjust. You are ungrateful. If you go away from me, I will leave all that I possess to Hugo, as I intended to do. Brian, as you call him—Vincenza Vasari's son—shall have nothing."

"And Brian is to be disinherited in favour of Hugo Luttrell, is he?" said Dino, in a still lower voice, but one which the listener felt instinctively had a dangerous sound. "Do you know what manner of man this Hugo Luttrell is, that you wish to enrich him with your wealth, and make him the master of Netherglen?"

"I know no harm of him," she answered.

He paused a little, and turned his face—was it consciously or unconsciously?—towards the open door, from which could be seen the screen, behind which the unhappy listener crouched and quivered in agony of fear. Willingly would Hugo have turned and fled, but flight was now impossible. The fire was blazing brightly, and threw a red glow over all the room. If he emerged from behind the screen, his figure would be distinctly visible to Dino, whose face was turned in that direction. What was he going to say?

"I know no harm of him," she answered.

"Then I will enlighten you. Hugo Luttrell knew that Brian was alive, that I was in England, two months ago. A letter from the Prior of San Stefano must have been in some way intercepted by him; he made use of his knowledge, however he obtained it, to bring the messages from Brian which were utterly false, to try and induce me to relinquish my claim on you; he forged a letter from Brian for that purpose; and finally——"

Mrs. Luttrell's voice, harsh and strident with emotion, against which she did her best to fight, broke the sudden silence.

"Do you call it fair and right," she said, "to accuse a man of such faults as these behind his back? If you want to tell me anything against Hugo, send for him and tell it to me in his presence. Then he can defend himself."

"He will try to defend himself, no doubt," said Dino, with a note of melancholy scorn in his grave, young voice. "But I will do nothing behind his back. You wish him to be summoned?"

"Yes, I do. Ring the bell instantly!" cried Mrs. Luttrell, whose loving ardour seemed to have given way to the most unmitigated resentment.

"Tell the servants to find him and bring him here."

"They would not have far to go," said Dino, coolly. "He is close to hand. Hugo Luttrell, come here and answer for yourself."

"What do you mean? Where is he?" exclaimed Mrs. Luttrell, struck with his tone of command. "He is not in this room!"

"No, but he is in the next, hiding behind that screen. He has been there for the last half-hour. You need play the spy no longer, sir. Have the goodness to step forward and show yourself."

The inexorable sternness of his voice struck the listeners with amaze. Pale as a ghost, trembling like an aspen leaf, Hugo emerged from his hiding-place, and confronted the mother and the son.



CHAPTER XXXII.

RETRIBUTION.

"Confess!" said Dino, whose stern voice and outstretched, pointing finger seemed terrible as those of some accusing and avenging angel to the wretched culprit. "Confess that I have only told the truth. Confess that you lied and forged and cheated to gain your own ends. Confess that when other means failed you tried to kill me. Confess and then" with a sudden lowering of his tones to the most wonderful exquisite tenderness "God knows that I shall be ready to forgive!"

But the last words passed unheeded. Hugo cowered before his eye, covered his ears with his hands, and made a sudden dash to the door, with a cry that was more like the howl of a hunted wild animal, than the utterance of a human being. Mrs. Luttrell called for help, and half-rose from her chair. But Dino laid his hand upon her arm.

"Let him go," said he. "I have no desire to punish him. But I must warn you."

The door clanged behind the flying figure, and awakened the echoes of the old house. Hugo was gone: whither they knew not: away, perhaps, into the world of darkness that reigned without. Mrs. Luttrell sank back into her chair, trembling from head to foot.

"Mother," said Dino, going up to her, and kneeling before her, "forgive me if I have spoken too violently. But I could not bear that you should never know what sort of man this Hugo Luttrell has grown to be."

Her hand closed convulsively on his. "How—how did you know—that he was there?"

"I saw his reflection in the mirror before me as he passed the open door. He was afraid, and he hid himself there to listen. Mother, never trust him again."

"Never—never," she stammered. "Stay with me—protect me."

"You will not need my protection," he said, looking at her with calm, surprised eyes. "You will have your friends: Mr. Colquhoun, and the beautiful lady that you call Angela. And, for my sake, let me think that you will have Brian, too."

"No, no!" Her voice took new strength as she answered him, and she snatched her hand angrily away from his close clasp. "I will never speak to him again."

"Not even when he returns?"

"You told me that he was gone to America!"

"I feel sure that some day he will come back. He will learn the truth—that I have withdrawn my claim; then he and Miss Murray must settle the matter of property between them. They may divide it; or they might even marry."

His voice was perfectly calm; he had brooded over this arrangement for so long that it scarcely struck him how terrible it would sound in Mrs. Luttrell's ears.

"Do you mean it?" she said, feebly. "You renounce your claim—to be—my son?"

"Oh, not your son, mother," he said, kissing the cold hand, which she immediately drew away from him. "Not your son! Not the claim to be loved, and the right to love you! But let that rest between ourselves. Why should the money that I do not want come between me and you, between me and my friend? Let Brian come home, and you will have two sons instead of one."

"Rather say that I shall have no son at all," said Mrs. Luttrell, with gathering anger. "If you do this thing I cast you off. I forbid you to give what is your own to Vincenza Vasari's son."

"You make it hard for me to act if you forbid me," said Dino, rising and standing before her with a pleading look upon his face. "But I hold to my intention, mother. I will not touch a penny of this fortune. It shall be Brian's, or Miss Murray's—never mine."

"The matter is in a lawyer's hands. Your rights will be proved in spite of you."

"I do not think they will. I hold the proofs in my hand. I can destroy them every one, if I choose."

"But you will not choose. Besides, these are the copies, not the originals."

"No, excuse me. I obtained the originals from Mr. Brett. He expects me to take them back to him to-night." Dino held out a roll of papers. "They're all here. I will not burn them, mother, if you will send for Brian back and let him have his share."

"They would be no use if he came back. You must have the whole or nothing. Let us make a bargain; give up your scheme of entering a monastery, and then I will consent to some arrangement with Brian about money matters. But I will never see him!"

Dino shook his head. He turned to the fireplace with the papers in his hand.

"I withdraw my claims," he said, simply.

Mrs. Luttrell was quivering with suppressed excitement, but she mastered herself sufficiently to speak with perfect coldness.

"Unless you consent to abandon a monastic life, I would rather that your claims were given up," she said. "Let Elizabeth Murray keep the property, and do you and the man Vasari go your separate ways."

"Mother——"

"Call me 'mother' no longer," she said, sternly, "you are no more my son than he was, if you can leave me, in my loneliness and widowhood, to be a monk."

"Then—this is the end," said Dino.

With a sudden movement of the hand he placed the roll of papers in the very centre of the glowing fire. Mrs. Luttrell uttered a faint cry, and struggled to rise to her feet, but she had not the strength to do so. Besides, it was too late. With the poker, Dino held down the blazing mass, until nothing but a charred and blackened ruin remained. Then he laid down the poker, and faced Mrs. Luttrell with a wavering but victorious smile.

"It is done," he said, with something of exultation in his tone. "Now I am free. I have long seen that this was the only thing to do. And now I can acknowledge that the temptation was very great."

With lifted head and kindling eye, he looked, in this hour of triumph over himself, as if no temptation had ever assailed, or ever could assail, him. But then his glance fell upon Mrs. Luttrell, whose hands fiercely clutched the arms of her chair, whose features worked with uncontrollable agitation. He fell on his knees before her.

"Mother!" he cried. "Forgive me. Perhaps I was wrong. I will—I will ... I will pray for you."

The last few words were spoken after a long pause, with a fall in his voice, which showed that they were not those which he had intended to say when he began the sentence. There was something solemn and pathetic in the sound. But Mrs. Luttrell would not hear.

"Go!" she said, hoarsely. "Go. You are no son of mine. Sooner Brian—or Hugo—than you. Go back to your monastery."

She thrust him away from her with her hands when he tried to plead. And at last he saw that there was no use in arguing, for she pulled a bell which hung within her reach, and, when the servant appeared, she placed the matter beyond dispute by saying sharply:—

"Show this gentleman out."

Dino looked at her face, clasped his hands in one last silent entreaty, and—went. There was no use in staying longer. The door closed behind him, and the woman who had thrust away from her the love that might have been hers, but for her selfishness and hardness of heart, was left alone.

A whirl of raging, angry thoughts made her brain throb and reel. She had put away from her what might have been the great joy of her life; her will, which had never been controlled by another, had been simply set aside and disregarded. What was there left for her to do? All the repentance in the world would not give her back the precious papers that her son had burnt before her eyes. And where had he gone? Back to his monastery? Should she never, never see him again? Was he tramping the long and weary way to the Dunmuir station, where the railway engine would presently come shrieking and sweeping out of the darkness, and, like a fabled monster in some old fairy tale, gather him into its embrace, and bear him away to a place whence he would never more return?

So grotesque this fancy appeared to her that her anger failed her, and she laughed a little to herself—laughed with bloodless lips that made no sound. A kind of numbness of thought came over her: she sat for a little time in blank unconsciousness of her sorrow, and yet she did not sleep. And then a host of vividly-pictured images began to succeed each other with frightful rapidity across the tabula rasa of her mind.

It seemed to her in that quiet hour she saw her son as he walked dawn the dark road to Dunmuir. The moon was just rising; the trees on either hand lifted their gaunt branches to a wild and starless sky. Whose face, white as that of a corpse, gleamed from between those leafless stems? Hugo's, surely. And what did he hold in his hand? Was it a knife on which a faint ray of moonlight was palely reflected? He was watching for that solitary traveller who came with heedless step and hanging head upon the lonely road. In another moment the spring would be taken, the thrust made, and a dying man's blood would well out upon the stones. Could she do nothing? "Brian! Brian!" she cried—or strove to cry; but the shriek seemed to be stifled before it left her lips. "Brian!" Three times she tried to call his name, with an agony of effort which, perhaps, brought her back to consciousness—for the dream, if dream it was, vanished, and she awoke.

Awoke—to the remembrance of what she had heard, concerning Hugo's attempt on Dino's life, and the fact that she had sent her son out of the house to walk to Dunmuir alone. She was not so blind to Hugo's inherited proclivities to passion and revenge as she pretended to be. She knew that he was a dangerous enemy, and that Dino had incurred his hatred. What might not happen on that lonely road between Netherglen and Dunmuir if Dino (Brian, she called him) traversed it unwarned, alone, unarmed? She must send servants after him at once, to guard him as he went upon his way. She heard her maid in the next room. Should she call Janet, or should she ring the bell?

What a curiously-helpless sensation had come over her! She did not seem able to rouse herself. She could not lift her hand. She was tired; that was it. She would call Janet. "Janet!" But Janet did not hear.

How was it that she could not speak? Her faculties were as clear as usual: her memory was as strong as ever it had been. She knew exactly what she wanted: she could arrange in her own mind the sentences that she wished to say. But, try as she would, she could not articulate a word, she could not raise a finger, or make a sign. And again the terrible dread of what would happen to the son she loved took possession of her mind.

Oh, if only he would return, she would let him have his way. What did it matter that the proof of his birth had been destroyed? She would acknowledge him as her son before all the world; and she would let him divide his heritage with whomsoever he chose. Netherglen should be his, and the three claimants might settle between themselves, whether the rest of the property should belong to one of them, or be divided amongst the three. He might even go back to San Stefano; she would love him and bless him throughout, if only she knew that his life was safe. She went further. She seemed to be pleading with fate—or rather with God—for the safety of her son. She would receive Brian with open arms; she would try to love him for Dino's sake. She would do all and everything that Dino required from her, if only she could conquer this terrible helplessness of feeling, this dumbness of tongue which had come over her. Surely it was but a passing phase: surely when someone came and stood before her the spell would be broken, and she would be able to speak once more.

The maid peeped in, thought she was sleeping, and quietly retired. No one ventured to disturb Mrs. Luttrell if she nodded, for at night she slept so little that even a few minutes' slumber in the daytime was a boon to her. A silent, motionless figure in her great arm-chair, with her hands folded before her in her lap, she sat—not sleeping—with all her senses unnaturally sharpened, it seemed to her; hearing every sound in the house, noting every change in the red embers of the fire in which the proof of her son's history had been consumed, and all the while picturing to herself some terrible tragedy going on outside the house, which a word from her might have averted. And she not able to pronounce that word!

Dino, meanwhile, had plunged into the darkness, without a thought of fear for himself. He walked away from the house just as she had seen him in her waking dream, with head bent and eyes fixed on the ground. He took the right road to Dunmuir, more by accident than by design, and walked beneath the rows of sheltering trees, through which the loch gleamed whitely on the one hand, while on the other the woods looked ominously black, without a thought of the revengeful ferocity which lurked beneath the velvet smoothness of Hugo Luttrell's outer demeanour. If something moved amongst the trees on his right hand, if something crouched amongst the brushwood, like a wild animal prepared to spring, he neither saw nor heard the tokens which might have moved him to suspicion. But suddenly it seemed to him that a wild cry rang out upon the stillness of the night air. His friend's name—or was it his own?—three times repeated, in tones of heartrending pain and terror. "Brian! Brian! Brian!" Whose voice had called him? Not that of anyone he knew. And yet, what stranger would use that name? He stopped, looked round, and answered:—

"Yes, I am here."

And then it struck him that the voice had been close beside him, and that, standing where he stood in the middle of the long, white road, it was quite impossible that any one could be so near, and yet remain unseen.

With a slight shudder he let his eyes explore the sides of the road: the hedgerows, and the bank that rose on his right hand towards the wood. Surely there was something that moved and stopped, and moved again amongst the bracken. With one bound Dino reached the moving object, and dragged it forth into the light. He knew whom he was touching before he saw the face. It was Hugo who lurked in the hedgerows, waiting—and for what?

"You heard it?" said Dino, as the young man crouched before him, scarcely daring to lift up his head, although at that moment, if he had had his wits about him, he could not have had a better chance for the accomplishment of any sinister design. "Who called?"

Hugo cast a quick startled glance at the wood behind him. "I heard nothing," he said, sullenly.

"I heard a voice that called me," said Dino. Then he looked at Hugo, and pressed his shoulder somewhat heavily with his hand. "What were you doing there? For whom were you waiting?"

"For nobody," muttered Hugo.

"Are you sure of that? I could almost believe that you were waiting for me; and should I be far wrong? When I think of that other time, when you deceived me, and trapped me, and left me dying, as you thought, in the streets, I can believe anything of you now."

Hugo's trembling lips refused to articulate a word. He could neither deny the charge nor plead for mercy.

Dino's exultation of mood led him to despise an appeal to any but the higher motives. He would not condescend to threaten Hugo with the police-court and the criminal cell. He loosed his hold on the young man's shoulder, and told him to rise from the half-kneeling posture, to which fear, rather than Dino's strength, had brought him. And when Hugo stood before him, he spoke in the tone of one to whom the spiritual side of life was more real, more important than any other, and it seemed to Hugo as if he spoke from out some other world.

"There is a day coming," he said, "when the secrets of all men's hearts will be revealed. And where will you be, what will you do in that dread day? When you stand before the Judge of all men on His great white Throne, how will you justify yourself to Him?"

The strong conviction, the deep penetrating accents of his words, carried a sting to Hugo's conscience. He felt as if Dino had a supernatural knowledge of his past life and his future, when he said solemnly:—

"Think of the secrets of your heart which shall then be made known to all men. What have you done? Have you not broken God's laws? Have you not in very truth committed murder?... There is a commandment in God's Word which says, 'Thou shalt not kill.'"

"Stop, stop, for Heaven's sake, stop!" gasped Hugo, covering his face with his hands. "How can you know all this? I did not mean to kill him. I meant only to have my revenge. I did not know——"

"Nay, do not try to excuse yourself," said Dino, who caught the words imperfectly, and did not understand that they referred to any crime but the one so nearly accomplished against himself. "God knows all. He saw what you did: He can make it manifest in His own way. Confess to Him now: not to me. I pardon you."

There was a great sob from behind Hugo's quivering fingers; but it was only of relief, not repentance. Dino waited a moment or two before he said, with the tone of quiet authority which was natural to him:—

"Now fetch me the knife which you dropped amongst the ferns by the hedge over there."

With the keen, quick sight that he possessed, he had caught a glimpse of it in the scuffle, and seen it drop from Hugo's hand. But the young Sicilian took the order as another proof of the sort of superhuman knowledge of his deeds and motives which he attributed to Dino Vasari, and went submissively to the place where the weapon was lying, picked it up, and with hanging head, presented it humbly to the man whose spiritual force had for the moment mastered him.

"You must not return to Netherglen," said Dino, looking at him as he spoke. "My mother will not see you again: she does not want you near her. You understand?"

Hugo assented, with a sort of stifled groan.

"I was forced to tell her, in order to put her on her guard. But if you obey me, I will tell no one else. I have not even told Brian. If I find that you return to your evil courses, I shall keep the secret of your conduct no longer. Then, when Brian comes home, he can reckon with you."

"Brian!" ejaculated Hugo.

"Yes: Brian. What I require from you is that you trouble Netherglen no more. I cannot think of you with peace in my mother's house. You will leave it to-night—at once."

"Yes," Hugo muttered. He had no desire to return to Netherglen.

"I am going to Dunmuir," said Dino. "You can walk on with me."

Hugo made no opposition. He turned his face vaguely in the specified direction, and moved onward; but the sound of Dino's voice, clear and cold, gave him a thrill of shame, amounting to positive physical pain.

"Walk before me, if you please. I cannot trust you."

They walked on: Hugo a pace or two in front, Dino behind. Not a word was spoken between them until they reached the chief street of Dunmuir, and then Dino called to him to pause. They were standing in front of Mr. Colquhoun's door.

"You are not going in here?" said Hugo, with a sharp note of terror in his voice. "You will not tell Colquhoun?"

"I will tell no one," said Dino, "so long as you fulfil the condition I have laid upon you. This is our last word on the subject. God forgive you, as I do."

They stood for a moment, face to face. The moon had risen, and its light fell peacefully upon the paved street, the old stone houses, the broad, beautiful river with its wooded banks, the distant sweep of hills. It fell also on the faces of the two men, not unlike in feature and colouring, but totally dissimilar in expression, and seemed to intensify every point of difference between them. There was a lofty serenity upon Dino Vasari's brow, while guilt and fear and misery were deeply imprinted on Hugo's boyish, beautiful face. For the first time the contrast between them struck forcibly on Hugo's mind. He leaned against the stone wall of Mr. Colquhoun's house, and gave vent to his emotion in one bitter, remorseful sob of pain.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

WHAT PERCIVAL KNEW.

Mr. Colquhoun and Mr. Brett were sitting over their wine in the well-lighted, well-warmed dining-room of the lawyer's house. They had been friends in their earlier days, and were delighted to have an opportunity of meeting (in a strictly unprofessional way) and chatting over the memories of their youth. It was a surprise to both of them when the door was opened to admit Dino Vasari and Hugo Luttrell: two of the last visitors whom Mr. Colquhoun expected. His bow to Dino was a little stiff: his greeting of Hugo more cordial than usual.

"You come from Mrs. Luttrell?" he asked, in surprise.

Hugo's pallid lips, and look of agitation, convinced him that some disaster was impending. But Dino answered with great composure.

"I come to bring you news which I think ought not to be kept from you for a moment longer than is necessary," he said.

"Pray take a glass of wine, Mr.—er—Mr.——" The lawyer did not quite know how to address his visitor. "Won't you sit down, Hugo?"

"I have not come to stay," said Dino. "I am going to the hotel for the night. I wished only to speak to you at once." He put one hand on the table by which he was standing and glanced at Mr. Brett. For the first time he showed some embarrassment. "I hope it will not inconvenience you," he said, "if I tell you that I have withdrawn my claim."

Dead silence fell on the assembly. Mr. Brett pushed back his chair a little way and stared. Mr. Colquhoun shook his head and smiled.

"I find," continued Dino, "that Mrs. Luttrell and I have entirely different views as to the disposition of the property and the life that I ought to lead. I cannot give up my plans—even for her. The easiest way to set things straight is to let the estate remain in Miss Murray's hands."

"You can't!" said Mr. Colquhoun, abruptly. "Brian Luttrell is alive!"

"Then let it go to Brian Luttrell."

"My dear sir," said Mr. Brett, "you have offered us complete documentary evidence that the gentleman now on his way to America is not Brian Luttrell at all."

"Yes, but there is only documentary evidence," said Dino. "The deaths of Vincenza Vasari and Rosa Naldi in a railway accident deprived us of anything else."

"Where are those papers?" asked Mr. Brett, sharply. "I hope they are safe."

"Quite safe, Mr. Brett. I have burnt them all." The shock of this communication was too much, even for the case-hardened Mr. Brett. He turned positively pale.

"Burnt them! Burnt them!" he ejaculated. "Oh, the man is mad. Burnt the proofs of his position and birth——"

"I have done all that I wanted to do," said Dino, colouring as the three pairs of eyes were fastened upon him with different expressions of disbelief, surprise, and even scorn. "My mother knows that I am her son: that is all I cared for. That is what I came for, not for the estate."

"But, my dear, young friend," said Mr. Colquhoun, with unusual gentleness, "don't you see that if Mrs. Luttrell and Brian and Miss Murray are all convinced that you are Mrs. Luttrell's son, you are doing them a wrong by destroying the proofs and leaving everybody in an unsettled state? You should never have come to Scotland at all if you did not mean to carry the matter through."

"That's what I say," cried Mr. Brett, who was working himself up into a violent passion. "He has played fast and loose with all us! He has tricked and cheated me. Why, he had a splendid case! And to think that it can be set aside in this way!"

"Very informal," said Mr. Colquhoun, shaking his head, but with a little gleam of laughter in his eye. If Dino Vasari had told the truth, the matter had taken a fortunate turn in Mr. Colquhoun's opinion.

"Scandalous! scandalous!" exclaimed Mr. Brett. "Actionable, I call it. You had no right to make away with those papers, sir. However, it may be possible to repair the loss. They were not all there."

"I will not have it," said Dino, decisively. "Nothing more shall be done. I waive my claims entirely. Brian and Miss Murray can settle the rest."

And then the party broke up. Mr. Brett seized his client by the arm and bore him away to the hotel, arguing and scolding as he went. Before his departure, however, Dino found time to say a word in Mr. Colquhoun's ear.

"Will you kindly look after Hugo to-night?" he said. "Mrs. Luttrell will not wish him to return to Netherglen."

"Oh! There's been a quarrel, has there?" said Mr. Colquhoun eyeing the young man curiously.

After a little consideration, Dino thought himself justified in saying "Yes."

"I will see after him. You are going with Brett. You'll not have a smooth time of it."

"It will be smoother by-and-bye. You will shake hands with me, Mr. Colquhoun?"

"That I will," said the old lawyer, heartily. "And wish you God-speed, my lad. You've not been very wise, maybe, but you've been generous."

"You will have Brian home, before long, I hope."

"I hope so. I hope so. It's a difficult matter to settle," said Mr. Colquhoun, cautiously, "but I think we might see our way out of it if Brian were at home. If you want a friend, lad, come to me."

Left alone with Hugo, the solicitor took his place once more at the table, and hastily drank off a glass of wine, then glanced at his silent guest with a queerly-questioning look.

"What's wrong with ye, lad?" he said. "Cheer up, and drink a glass of good port wine. Your aunt has quarrelled with many people before you, and she'll like enough come to her senses in course of time."

"Did he say I had quarrelled with my aunt?" asked Hugo, in a dazed sort of way.

"Well, he said as much. He said there had been a quarrel. He asked me to keep an eye on you. Why, Hugo, my man, what's the matter?"

For Hugo, utterly careless of the old man's presence, suddenly laid his aims on the table, and his head on his arms, and burst into passionate hysterical tears.

"Tut, tut, tut, man! this will never do," said Mr. Colquhoun, rebukingly. "You're not a girl, nor a child, to cry for a sharp word or two. What's wrong?"

But he got no answer. Not even when Hugo, spent and exhausted with the violence of his emotion, lifted up his face and asked hoarsely for brandy. Mr. Colquhoun gave him what he required, without asking further questions, and tried to induce him to take some solid food; but Hugo absolutely refused to swallow anything but a stiff glass of brandy and water, and allowed himself to be conducted to a bed-room, where he flung himself face downwards on the bed, and preserved a sullen silence.

Mr. Colquhoun did not press him to speak. "I'll hear it all from Margaret Luttrell to-morrow morning," he said to himself. "My mind misgives me that there have been strange doings up at Netherglen to-night. But I'll know to-morrow."

It was at that very moment that Angela Vivian, going into the dressing-room, found a motionless, silent figure, sitting upright in the wheeled arm-chair, a figure, not lifeless, indeed, but with life apparent only in the agonised glance of the restless eyes, which seemed to plead for help. But no help could be given to her now. No more hard words could fall from those stricken lips: no more bitter sentences be written by those nerveless fingers. She might live for years, if dragging on a mute, maimed existence could be, indeed, called living; but, as far as power over the destiny of others, of doing good or harm to her loved ones, was concerned, Margaret Luttrell was practically dead!

Mr. Colquhoun heard the news of Mrs. Luttrell's seizure on the following morning, and made good use of it as a reproach to Dino in the conversation that he had with him. But Dino, although deeply grieved at the turn which things had taken, stood firm. He would have nothing to do with the Strathleckie or the Luttrell properties. Whereupon, Mr. Colquhoun went straight to Miss Murray, and told her, to the best of his ability, the long and intricate story. Be it observed that, although Mr. Colquhoun knew that Brian was living, and that he had lately been in England, he did not know of Brian's appearance at Strathleckie under the name of Stretton, and was, therefore, unable to give Elizabeth any information on this point.

Elizabeth was imperative in her decision.

"At any rate," she said, "the property cannot belong to me. It must belong either to Mr. Luttrell or to Mr. Vasari. I have no right to it."

"Possession is nine points of the law, my dear," said the lawyer. "Nobody can turn you out until Brian comes home again. It may be all a mistake."

"You don't think it a mistake, Mr. Colquhoun?"

Mr. Colquhoun smiled, pursed up his lips, and gave his head a little shake, as much as to say that he was not going to be tricked into any expression of his private opinions.

"The thing will be to get Mr. Brian Luttrell back," said Elizabeth.

"Not such an easy thing as it seems, I am afraid, Miss Murray. The lad, Dino Vasari, or whatever his name is, tried hard to keep him, but failed. He is an honest lad, I believe, this Dino, but he's an awful fool, you know, begging your pardon. If he wanted to keep Brian in England, why couldn't he write to me?"