"No, sir!" I answered. "No--and yet--it seems as if--yes, I have heard it, Uncle, but not in London. I heard it mentioned two years ago--in a wood. It was spoken by a scoundrel who named himself Haredale though Lord Wyvelstoke addressed him as--Devereux!" "Devereux!" said my uncle in so strange a tone that I lifted my gaze from the scrawled name and saw that he had removed his hat again and was staring at me with an expression as strange as his voice, his eyes fixed and intent as though they stared at things I could not see, brow wrinkled, nostrils expanded, chin more aggressive than usual. "Devereux! Nephew, you--are sure it was--Devereux?" "Absolutely, sir." "Hum!" said my uncle, putting on his hat. "I'll trouble you for that scrap of paper, Nephew. Thanks! Now let us go on. Your headache is better, I hope?" "Much better, sir. But pray take my coat, you are shivering." "Thank you, no--there is nothing like the early morning, it fills one with a zest of life, the _joie de vivre_--though I will admit I am seldom abroad at this hour." Now despite his light tone, I noticed two things, his eyes were still fixed and intent and a thin trickle of moisture gleamed beneath his hat brim. "Poor child!" sighed my uncle. "Let us hope her bruised spirit has found rest, a surcease from all troubles. Let us hope she has found the Infinite Happiness if there be such in the Great Beyond. Haredale--hum! Have you any recollection of this man, Perry; his looks, air, voice--could you describe him?" "He was tall, sir, as yourself, or very nearly--looked younger than his years--a cold, imperturbable man, dark, but of pale complexion, with deep-set eyes that seemed to glow strangely. A man of iron will who fronted Lord Wyvelstoke unflinchingly even after his arm was shot and broken!" And here I described the incident as fully as possible. "And what was the name Lord Wyvelstoke used?" "Devereux, sir." "Hum!" said my uncle. And thereafter we walked in silence through streets beginning to stir with the busy life of a new day. Reaching my uncle's chambers in St. James's Street, he paused in the doorway to glance up and down the street with that same expression of fixed intensity, that faraway look of absorption. "This," said he, speaking almost as with an effort, "this has been a--somewhat eventful walk of ours, Peregrine. I will not invite you to breakfast, remembering you have guests of your own. Au revoir." "Uncle Jervas," said I, as we clasped hands, "this has indeed been an eventful walk, for to-day I have learned to know you better than I ever expected, or dared to hope--sir, are you ill?" I questioned anxiously, for despite that trickle of moisture at his temple, the hand I held felt deadly cold and nerveless. "Are you ill, sir?"