“I know you will, you precious, warm-hearted girl.” He clasped her hand almost convulsively. What he had found out had wounded him to the core. Nothing hurt this strong, proud man so much as the discovery that his confidence had been misplaced in those near to him, that his trust in them had been abused. “Thank heaven, I have one dear little friend in the world, one dear, loyal little friend who has never given me a moment’s uneasiness, who I am confident never will. But run away now, my darling. I cannot speak yet, even to you, of what is troubling me.” She obeyed him, and left the room wondering. The words he had spoken had been very vague, but her quick instinct had prompted certain suspicions of the cause of his deep perturbation. She was confident that Mrs. Morrice was at the bottom of it. Had he found out something to her discredit, and if so, what? Was it possible that Lane had conceived it to be his duty to report to him that conversation between aunt and nephew which she had overheard? They dined alone that night, and she was sure that his deep gloom must have been noticed by the servants who waited on them. And she was sure it was not business matters that troubled him. He had always boasted that he never brought home his office worries with him, had expressed his contempt for men who did so, who had no power of detachment. “When a man comes back to his home it is his duty to make his family happy, and leave his business behind him,” had been a favourite dictum of his, and to do him justice he had always acted up to it. After dinner they went up to the drawing-room, but he made no pretence of being cheerful. Rosabelle asked if the piano would disturb him. He shook his head, and she played very softly a few of her favourite pieces. Suddenly Morrice rose, went to her, and kissed her. “I am wretched company to-night, my little girl,” he said; his face still wore its hard gloomy expression, but there was a sadness in his voice that went to the girl’s heart. “You stay here and amuse yourself as best you can. I am going to my study, and shall not see you again this evening. Good-night, dear.” Rosabelle clung to him. “Oh, uncle, can I do nothing to help you?” He gave her a grateful smile, but shook his head obstinately, and left the room. She played on a little after he had gone, but she was full of troubled thoughts, and hardly knew what she was doing. And Rupert Morrice, the great financier, the successful man of business, respected by all who knew him, envied by many, sat alone in his room, devoured by bitter and revengeful thoughts. What had his wealth done for him, if it failed to buy loyalty from those who were near to him, on whom he had lavished such kindness and generosity? It was only a little past eight o’clock, they had dined early as was often their custom when they had no company. Would the weary evening ever come to a close? But when it did, and he went to his room, he knew he would not be able to sleep.