And yet he could not but admit--and at this he sat bolt upright in his seat--that even according to his own high standards both St. George and Harry had measured up to them! Rather than touch another penny of his uncle's money Harry had become an exile; rather than accept a penny from his enemy, St. George had become a pauper. With this view of the case fermenting in his mind--and he had not realized the extent of both sacrifices until that moment--a feeling of pride swept through him. It was HIS BOY and HIS FRIEND, who had measured up!--by suffering, by bodily weakness--by privation--by starvation! And both had manfully and cheerfully stood the test! It was the blood of the DeRuyters which had put courage into the boy; it was the blood of the cavaliers that had made Temple the man he was. And that old DeRuyter blood! How it had told in every glance of his son's eyes and every intonation of his voice! If he had not accumulated a fortune he would--and that before many years were gone. But!--and here a chill went through him. Would not this still further separate them, and if it did how could he restore in the shortest possible time the old dependence and the old confidence? His efforts so far had met with almost a rebuff, for Harry had shown no particular pleasure when he told him of his intention to put him in charge of the estate: he had watched his face closely for a sign of satisfaction, but none had come. He had really seemed more interested in getting St. George downstairs than in being the fourth heir of Moorlands--indeed, it was very evident that he had no thought for anybody or anything except St. George. All this the son might have known could he have sat by his father in the carryall on this way to Moorlands. CHAPTER XXIX The sudden halting of two vehicles close to the horse-block of the Temple Mansion--one an aristocratic carryall driven by a man in livery, and the other a dilapidated city hack in charge of a negro in patched overcoat and whitey-brown hat, the discharge of their inmates, one of whom was Colonel Talbot Rutter of Moorlands carrying two pillows, and another a strange young man loaded down with blankets--the slow disembarking of a gentleman in so wretched a state of health that he was practically carried up the front steps by his body-servant, and the subsequent arrival of Dr. Teackle on the double quick--was a sight so unusual in and around peaceful Kennedy Square that it is not surprising that all sorts of reports--most of them alarming--reached the club long before St. George had been comfortably tucked away in bed. Various versions were afloat: “St. George was back from Wesley with a touch of chills and fever--” “St. George was back from Wesley with a load of buckshot in his right arm--” “St. George had broken his collar-bone riding to hounds--” etc.