Captain Bradshaw sat for a minute or two as if stunned. The old soldier, though passionate and hot tempered, was a man with a great heart, and this sin was one he held in extreme horror. The story of the man who stood before him would, under any circumstances, have greatly moved him—would have filled him with burning indignation. As it was, the blow fell upon him almost as heavily as upon Stephen Walker. He had lost a son as entirely and finally as the other had lost a daughter. For he loved Frank Maynard as a father might do. True, he had for a few months past treated him with some coolness, but his affection had been unshaken, and he had fully resolved that upon his return from his wedding tour he would take him thoroughly into favour again. To hear now that he was a cruel and cold-blooded seducer, to know that he was utterly worthless, this was to lose him for ever. He hid his face in his hands and groaned. Then with a quick movement, as one determined to throw aside all regrets, he rose to his feet and took Stephen Walker's hand. “Mr. Walker,” he said, “may God help us both! for we suffer nearly equally. I loved that boy as you loved your daughter. He was my heir and the hope of my old age. But what you have told me separates him from me as completely as if he were dead. You ask me for justice,” and here the old man's voice grew sharp and clear, “and justice you shall have. From this hour he is dead to me. Not one farthing of my money shall he ever have. Never again will I speak to him. There, sir, you have my word for it.” “I thank you, sir. As you said, God help us both!” And without another word Stephen Walker turned and left the room. Alice Heathcote had been rather alarmed by what the servant had said, and had listened with some anxiety for the departure of the strange visitor. Presently she heard his step come along the passage from the study, and then the closing of the front door as he let himself out. She waited two or three minutes, but heard no sound of her uncle coming from his study. Becoming alarmed she went to the door, knocked, and opened it. The old man was still sitting in the chair into which he had sunk while Stephen Walker was telling his story. His hands lay listless beside him, but there was a quick, nervous movement of the fingers. His face was sad and very pale, a grief all the more painful to see that it was tearless. Alice saw at once that something very serious had happened, the nature of which she could not even guess. Her uncle did not look up at her entrance, and alarmed at this terrible depression, this silence so different from the fits of impatient anger to which Captain Bradshaw was given when put out, she went up to him, took one of his hands in hers, and laid her other upon his shoulder. “My dear uncle, what is the matter?” It was only upon the question being repeated, that he looked up. “Poor Alice!” he said, “you will feel it as much as I do.”