One result of the interview was that the General decided on not returning to England for some time to come. Lionel and his wife were to join him in a little while at some place on the Continent, not yet fixed upon. Meantime he would rest quietly in Paris, and there await further instructions from Tom. The General had obtained Kester St. George’s address from Mr. Perrins, and about a week after Tom’s visit he wrote to his nephew, telling him where he was, and asking him to go over and see him in Paris. The invitation was one which Kester obeyed with alacrity. He had always held firmly to the belief that his uncle was a comparatively rich man. Now that Lionel was out of the way, and with so terrible an accusation still hanging over him, what more natural or likely than that he should replace Lionel in his uncle’s affections; and have his own name substituted in place of that of his cousin in his uncle’s will? Kester flung black care to the winds as he climbed the staircase that led to his uncle’s apartments in Paris. He put on his most winning smile, his most genial manner, as another man might pull on a pair of easy-fitting gloves. A servant opened the door: and there was his uncle seated in an invalid chair at the far end of the room. Kester sprang forward. “My dear uncle——” he began; and then he stopped. There was something in the eyes of the old soldier that chilled his enthusiasm in a moment. The General extended two lean, frigid fingers, and motioned to him to sit down. “Pray be seated,” he said. “I am not well, and I hate scenes.” Kester sat down without a word. General St. George, after deliberately rubbing his spectacles with his handkerchief, placed them across his nose, and proceeded to take a steady survey of his nephew. Kester fidgeted a little under the ordeal, but smiled and tried to appear pleased. “You don’t look so young as when I saw you last,” said his uncle. “Eight years make a difference in the appearance of most men,” said Kester; “and London life is very wearing.” “No doubt it is,” said the veteran, drily. “But that any absolute necessity exists for you to live in London is more than I was aware of before.” “No absolute necessity, perhaps, does exist. Yet I confess that, except by way of a brief change now and again, life to me anywhere else would soon become unendurable.” “You look prematurely old, sir—prematurely old,” said the General, severely. His spectacles were across his nose again by this time, and he was again looking Kester steadily in the face. And now he spoke in a voice that was low, stern, and impressive. “You look as if you had a burden on your mind: you look as if you had some secret care that was eating away your very life. Kester St. George, you are an unhappy man!” Kester’s colour came and went. A shiver ran through him from head to foot. He pressed one hand for a moment across his eyes. Then he laughed, a forced, hollow laugh.