Geoffrey was silent. He scarcely dared open his lips lest his joy should gush forth in ill-considered words. He could not look sorry, or even sympathetic. As a last resource, in this conflict of emotions, he devoured a mutton-chop, with no more sense of the operation of eating than if he had been a brazen idol whose jaws were worked by machinery. That tea-party was curiously silent, though Lucius did now and then attempt to promote conversation by a somewhat feeble remark. Directly the meal was over, Geoffrey rose from the table, no longer able to support the intensity of his own feelings, and bursting with impatience to question his friend. ‘Let’s go outside and have a smoke, Lucius,’ he said; ‘that is to say, if Mrs. Bertram will excuse us,’ he added with a deprecating look at Janet. ‘Pray do not consider me,’ she answered. ‘I am going to my room to pack my portmanteau for to-morrow. You can smoke here, if you like. I have become accustomed to the smell of tobacco since I have been staying with Lucius.’ ‘Poor Janet. I’ve been rather too bad; but it’s such a treat to have you sitting opposite me while I smoke.’ She smiled at her brother, the first smile Geoffrey had seen on that pale serious face, and left them. Privileged by her permission, they drew their chairs to the fender. Lucius filled his favourite pipe, and Geoffrey drew a cigar from a well-supplied case. ‘For heaven’s sake tell me all about it,’ said Geoffrey, directly Jacob Wincher had retired, staggering a little under the burden of the tea-tray. ‘Thank God she is free! She is free, and I may hope! I didn’t like to be too grateful to Providence in her presence. A woman’s tender heart will lament even a scoundrel when the grave closes upon him. Tell me everything, Lucius; but first tell me why you did not write me word of this man’s death. You wrote fast enough to tell me he was alive; why not write to announce the blessed fact of his departure?’ ‘For the simple reason that I forgot the necessity for such a letter. Janet’s husband died only ten days ago, and his death involved me in a good deal of business. There was the inquest, and then came the funeral. Yesterday I had to go down to Brighton, to-day I had an interview with a lawyer.’ ‘An inquest!’ exclaimed Geoffrey. ‘Then that fellow came to a violent end after all.’ ‘A violent and a strange end,’ answered his friend, and then proceeded to narrate the circumstances of Ferdinand Sivewright’s death, and to acquaint Geoffrey with the link which had bound Lucille to his sister’s husband. Geoffrey listened with patient attention. The main fact that this man was dead, and Janet free to marry whomsoever she pleased, was all-sufficient for his contentment. The serenity of disposition which had made him so pleasant a companion in days of hardship and trial once more asserted itself. Geoffrey Hossack was himself again. ‘Do you think there’s any hope for me?’ he asked, when Lucius had told all he had to tell. ‘Hope of what?’