Mr. Zanti shook his head, ruefully. “No, not ezackly a fortune! There was a place I 'eard of, right up in the Basque country--'twas an old deserted garden, where zey 'ad buried treasure, centuries ago--I 'ad it quite certainly from a friend. We came up there for a time but we found nothing.” He sighed and then was instantly cheered again. “But it's all right. I've got a plan now--a wonderful plan.” He became very mysterious. “It's a certain thing--we're off to Cornwall, Mr. Brant and myself--” “Cornwall?” “Come too, Peter.” “Ah! don't I wish that I could!” He suddenly saw his life, his books--everything in London holding him, tying him--“But I can't go now, my father being there makes it impossible. But in any case, I'm a family man now--you know.” As he said the words he was conscious that, in Stephen's eyes at any rate, the family man was about the last thing that he looked. He was wondering, with intense curiosity, what were the things that Stephen was finding in him, for the things that Stephen found were most assuredly the things that he was. No one knew him as Stephen knew him. Against his will the thought of Clare came driving upon him. How little she knew him! or was it only that she knew another side of him? But he pulled himself away from that. “Now for the nursery--Stephen Secundus. But you'll have to support me whilst I get rid of Mrs. Kant--perhaps three of us together--” As he led the way upstairs he knew that Stephen was not entirely reassured about him. Mrs. Kant was a large, busy woman, like a horse--a horse who dislikes other horses and sniffs an enemy in every wind. She very decidedly sniffed an enemy now, and Mr. Zanti's blue suit paled before her fierce eyes. He stepped back into the doorway again, treading upon Stephen. Peter, who was always conscious that Mrs. Kant looked upon himself and Clare as two entirely ridiculous and slightly impertinent children, stammered a little. “You might go down and have your tea now, Mrs. Kant. I'll keep an eye upon Stephen.” “I've had my tea, thank you, sir.” “Well, I'll relieve you of the baby for a little.” She was sewing. She snapped off a piece of thread with a sharp click of her teeth, sat silently for a moment staring in front of her, then quietly got up. “Thank you, sir,” she said and left the room. All three men breathed again as the door closed--then they were all conscious of young Stephen. The thing was, of course, absurd, but to all three of them there came the conviction that the baby had been laughing at them for their terror of Mrs. Kant. He was curled up on a chair by the fire, looking at them with his wide eyes over his shoulder, and he seemed to say, “I don't care a snap for the woman--why should you?” The blue ball was on the floor at the foot of the chair, and the firelight leapt upon the frieze that Peter had so carefully chosen--giants and castles, dwarfs and princesses running round the room in red, and blue and gold.