The matter gave her food for speculation during the remainder of the day. It seemed so strange that Sir Julian—the mild, unobtrusive Sir Julian—should go to such lengths as to disinherit his own son. The more she thought about the scapegrace the more her heart went out to him, although she knew that her sympathy was probably undeserved. When she returned to the flat she routed out an old family album, and carefully turned over the leaves. There were photographs in abundance of Lady Montella in different positions and dresses, chiefly dating from her early wedded days. There were photographs of Lionel in the various periods of infancy, as well as of the two little children who had died. Raie was deeply interested in them all, but she glanced at them cursorily in her eagerness to find the one she sought. At last her attention was arrested by a carte-de-visite in platinotype of a youth in a golf blazer, club in hand. It had evidently been taken some years ago, and was partially discoloured. The face of the young man was somewhat sensual in character, the mouth weak, but the eyes, on the contrary denoted intellect, and were so like Sir Julian’s that Raie looked at them in doubt. Flicking the dust from the album, she carried it into the study, where Lionel was writing. “Lal,” she demanded, as he put down his pen, “is this your father when he was a young man?” Montella glanced at the photograph, then up at the girl. “Where have you been rummaging, Raie?” he remarked, with curiosity. “This photograph is not my father, but a lad who went abroad a long time ago. I am afraid I must not tell you his name.” “It is Ferdinand Montella,” she returned boldly. “You see I know.” He regarded her with surprise. “Who told you?” he asked, in his quiet way. “I guessed it; but mamma was talking to me about Ferdinand to-day. I did not know there was such a person in existence. There seems to be quite a mystery about him. May I not know what it is, Lal?” “You surely do not desire to know what my parents wish to keep secret, do you, Raie?” “Oh, no—if you put it like that; but I did not think there was any harm in asking. Perhaps Aunt Inez will not mind telling me now that I am no longer a child.” “I should advise you not to mention the subject for the present, Raie,” he answered seriously. “It isn’t worth while raking up a story of the past which people would rather forget, is it? Perhaps, if you wait a little while, my mother will tell you of her own accord.” Raie quenched her thirst for information, and acquiesced, but still regarded the pictured face intently. There was an expression in the eyes which took her fancy; and in spite of the weakness of the mouth, the lips indicated good-humour.