"You have a conscience, then, Rupert Devereux?" I said, quietly. He looked at me appealingly, flushing to the very roots of his hair. "I scarcely understand," he began, hesitatingly. "Let me explain, then," I said, looking at him steadily. "It seems to me that, having wrecked my father's life by a deliberate conspiracy, you are now seeking to expiate that most damnable sin by conferring favours upon his son. It will not do, Rupert Devereux!" I should have pitied him had he been any other man, for he stood there looking distressed and disappointed. But, remembering who it was, I watched him with a bitter, sneering smile. "Then there is nothing more to be said, I suppose," he remarked, with a sigh. "I had better go." "You had better go," I echoed. "The only words I shall ever care to hear from your lips will be a confession of your villainous lie. I cannot believe that you will have the courage to die with that foul sin on your conscience." He moved his position, and then for the first time I remarked how like he was in the outline of the face and the features to Maud. But the likeness softened me not one whit towards him, whilst it made me feel harder towards her. He moved towards the door with a dejected gesture. "You are very hard," he said, in a low tone, "very hard for one so young. But I daresay that, according to your view of the matter, you are right, quite right. If you won't let me help you in any way, you won't. It's only another disappointment in a life of disappointments. I must go, then, Mr. Arbuthnot. But if at any time you should change your mind, come to me. I live in Mayfair, London." He walked out, and, without answering his farewell, I opened the door, and let him go in silence. This was my first interview with my Uncle Rupert. On the morrow Marian was married to Mr. Holdern. It was a very quiet wedding down at the village church, but it went off very pleasantly, and Marian looked charming in her plain white satin gown and simple veil. As we were entering the church I had a great surprise. Sir Francis Devereux, in a black frock-coat, and with an orchid in his buttonhole, called me on one side for a moment, and asked for permission to give away the bride. I would have preferred refusing such an unusual request--unusual, at any rate, as it would seem to those who knew us as Mr. and Miss Arbuthnot--but he looked so much in earnest that I could not find it in my heart to hurt his feelings. So, in ignorance of what they were beholding, the villagers of Devereux saw Sir Francis give his granddaughter away, whilst I, his grandson, stood a few yards behind.