“As to the King,” said he, “of course, I am _l’ami de famille_ there; and even with you I can scarce speak freely, as my relations are confidential.” “God bless him and keep him from ill!” cried my father. “It is pleasant to hear you say so,” said my uncle. “One has to come into the country to hear honest loyalty, for a sneer and a gibe are more the fashions in town. The King is grateful to me for the interest which I have ever shown in his son. He likes to think that the Prince has a man of taste in his circle.” “And the Prince?” asked my mother. “Is he well-favoured?” “He is a fine figure of a man. At a distance he has been mistaken for me. And he has some taste in dress, though he gets slovenly if I am too long away from him. I warrant you that I find a crease in his coat to-morrow.” We were all seated round the fire by this time, for the evening had turned chilly. The lamp was lighted and so also was my father’s pipe. “I suppose,” said he, “that this is your first visit to Friar’s Oak?” My uncle’s face turned suddenly very grave and stern. “It is my first visit for many years,” said he. “I was but one-and-twenty years of age when last I came here. I am not likely to forget it.” I knew that he spoke of his visit to Cliffe Royal at the time of the murder, and I saw by her face that my mother knew it also. My father, however, had either never heard of it, or had forgotten the circumstance. “Was it at the inn you stayed?” he asked. “I stayed with the unfortunate Lord Avon. It was the occasion when he was accused of slaying his younger brother and fled from the country.” We all fell silent, and my uncle leaned his chin upon his hand, looking thoughtfully into the fire. If I do but close my eyes now, I can see the light upon his proud, handsome face, and see also my dear father, concerned at having touched upon so terrible a memory, shooting little slanting glances at him betwixt the puffs of his pipe. “I dare say that it has happened with you, sir,” said my uncle at last, “that you have lost some dear messmate, in battle or wreck, and that you have put him out of your mind in the routine of your daily life, until suddenly some word or some scene brings him back to your memory, and you find your sorrow as raw as upon the first day of your loss.” My father nodded. “So it is with me to-night. I never formed a close friendship with a man—I say nothing of women—save only the once. That was with Lord Avon. We were of an age, he a few years perhaps my senior, but our tastes, our judgments, and our characters were alike, save only that he had in him a touch of pride such as I have never known in any other man. Putting aside the little foibles of a rich young man of fashion, _les indescrétions d’une jeunesse dorée_, I could have sworn that he was as good a man as I have ever known.” “How came he, then, to such a crime?” asked my father. My uncle shook his head.