They supped together in the house of St. James’s Street, my lord asking questions in a perfunctory fashion, often interrupting the replies by irrelevant digressions and displaying the careless contempt of the egotist for those superfluous subjects of which he condescended to be ignorant. It appeared to the son that the father was preoccupied by other matters. It was only when they came to the discussion of certain questions concerning property that my lord showed some of the acumen of the master of the many tenants. “How much have you lost by this voyage of yours? As for throwing money into the sea—” John Gore pretended to no grievance. “It is only what other men would have spent on petticoats and horses. Call it an eccentric extravagance. I have had a glimpse of the earth to balance the loss. About my Yorkshire property?” “I have had my hand on it, Jack. Swindale has been a success as steward. More money—for the sea’s maw. Is that the cry?” John Gore maintained a meditative reserve. “Possibly.” “I have the rent-roll—and a copy of the accounts in my desk. Go down and see Swindale for yourself. There is no need to think of such a means as a mortgage. Money has been accumulating. Besides, my boy, though your mother left her property to you, my own purse is always open.” The son thanked him, and changed to another subject—a subject that had been lurking for an hour or more in the conscious background of my lord’s mind. “How is Lionel Purcell?” Stephen Gore turned his wineglass round and round by the stem, eying his own white fingers and the exquisite lace of his ruffles. “Dead,” he said, shortly. The man in the red coat drew his heels up under his chair and leaned his elbows on the table. “Dead! Why, of all the quiet, careful livers—” “He had no say in the matter. Some one killed him.” There was a short pause. The elder man’s face remained a stately, meditative mask. He raised the wineglass and sipped the wine, pressing his lace cravat back with his left hand. “It was a sad affair, Jack, and came as a blow to me.” “Who killed him?” “Ah, that is the question! No one knows. I suspect that no one will ever know.” “Was there a reason?” My lord looked at his son shrewdly, meaningly. “A man of the world could infer. These scholars—well—they have blood in them like other mortals. We breathe nothing of it—because of the girl.” “Barbara?” My lord nodded. “The whole tragedy broke something in the child. She was bright and sparkling enough, you remember, though always a little fierce. There is the fear—” He paused expressively, with his eyes on his son’s face. “There is the fear of madness. The thing seems to have worn on her, chafed her mind. Anne Purcell and I have done what we can, for God knows—I was Lionel Purcell’s friend. But there is always the chance. She is not like other women.”