Thus ungraciously did Mr. Sivewright receive Lucius into the bosom of his family. Yet, in his own eccentric fashion, he seemed attached to the young man; courted his society, and had evidently an exalted belief in his honour. Nothing had Lucius yet done towards even the beginning of that endeavour to which he had pledged himself; but he had thought deeply and constantly of the task that had been imposed upon him, and had tried to see his way to its accomplishment. Given a man who had been missing twelve years, who in person, profession, and surroundings was utterly unknown to him, and who had cut every tie that bound him to kindred or home; who might be in any quarter of the globe, or in his grave—and how to set about the work of finding him? That was the problem which Lucille had proposed to him as calmly as if it were the simplest thing in the world. A very little consideration showed him that his only hope lay in beginning his investigation close at home. Unless he could obtain certain details from the old man—unless he could overcome Homer Sivewright’s objection to the subject, and induce him to talk freely about his missing son—the case seemed beyond all measure hopeless. And even if the father could be made to speak, even if Lucius could learn all that was to be told of Ferdinand Sivewright’s history at the time he left his home in Bond-street, there would be still a dreary gulf of twelve years to be bridged over. To question the old man was, however, the easiest and most obvious course. He might or might not remain obstinately dumb. One morning, when the patient’s case seemed more than usually promising—pain banished, and something of his old strength regained—Lucius made his first approach to this difficult subject. Their conversation, which was apt to wander widely, from the sordid business of life to the loftiest regions of metaphysical speculation, had on this occasion drifted into a discussion of the Christian faith. Mr. Sivewright contemplated that mighty theme from a purely critical standpoint; talked of the Gospel as he talked of the _Iliad_; admitted this and denied that; brought the hard dry logic of an unpoetical mind, the narrow scepticism of a suspicious nature, to bear upon divine truths. Lucius spoke with the quiet conviction of a man who believed and was not ashamed to stand to his colours. From a theological argument he led the old man to the question of Christian charity, as distinguished from mere Pagan humanitarianism; and here he found his opportunity. ‘I have often wondered,’ he said, ‘that you—who seem in most things a man of a calm temperament, even if somewhat stern—should yet cherish a lifelong anger against an only son. Forgive me for touching upon a subject which I know is painful to you—’