Mr. Black maintained a dogged silence during the remainder of the walk. He bade his son good-night coldly upon the inn stairs, and locked himself in his own rooms, muttering: “The girl has three lovers, for my fickle son really loves her. I must watch my chances, and not loosen my hold upon Octavia until I have made sure of Neva. In default of the greater prize, I must not lose the lesser. It requires some skill to sit upon two stools and not fall between them. I wish I could have foreseen the turn affairs would take, and had inserted my name in that forged letter in place of my son’s name. I shall have to be pretty keen to do away with the effect of that letter. I would give all I own in the world at present to know which of her three lovers will win the heiress of Hawkhurst.” CHAPTER XVI. RUFUS ASKS THE MOMENTOUS QUESTION. Craven Black and his son met at their late breakfast in the private parlor of the former. The father was himself again, cold, polite, and cynical. The son was sullen and irritable, at war with himself and all mankind. His grief for the loss of his young wife had lost none of its poignancy, although he had avowed himself the suitor of another. His thoughts during the night just passed had been all of Lally, and not of Neva. In his dreams at least, he was still true to the loving heart he had broken. The pair were sipping their coffee when a waiter brought in Mr. Black’s morning paper, just arrived from London. Craven Black unfolded the sheet and scanned its contents lazily. “Any news?” inquired Rufus. “Nothing particular. It’s all about a war in prospect between Prussia and France. I never read politics, so I’ll skip the French letter and alarming head lines. I prefer to read the smaller items. Ah, what is this?” Craven Black started and changed color as his eye rested upon a familiar name in an obscure paragraph, under a startling title. His agitation increased as he glanced over the paragraph, taking in its meaning. “What’s the matter?” demanded Rufus. “Any of your acquaintance dead? Any one left you a fortune?” “It is terrible,” said Craven Black, shuddering, and regarding the paper with horrified eyes. “How could she have been so utterly foolish and insane? It was not I who killed her.” “Killed whom? Then some one is dead?” “Poor girl!” muttered Craven Black, still staring at the paper with wide eyes, as if he read there an accusation of wilful murder. “Poor Lally--” “_Who?_” Rufus leaped to his feet with a shriek on his lips, bounded to his father’s side, and snatched the paper in his trembling hands. “I--I see nothing,” he cried. “You shocked me cruelly. I--I thought that Lally-- Oh, my God!” He stood as if suddenly frozen, staring as his father had done at an item in a lower corner of the paper--an item which bore the title: “Distressing Case of Suicide. Another unfortunate gone to her death!” From the midst of this paragraph the name of Lalla Bird stood out with startling distinctness.