“Many a time have I asked myself that question, and it comes home to me more to-night than ever.” All the jauntiness had gone out of his manner, and he had turned suddenly into a sad and serious man. “Was it certain that he did it, Charles?” asked my mother. My uncle shrugged his shoulders. “I wish I could think it were not so. I have thought sometimes that it was this very pride, turning suddenly to madness, which drove him to it. You have heard how he returned the money which we had lost?” “Nay, I have heard nothing of it,” my father answered. “It is a very old story now, though we have not yet found an end to it. We had played for two days, the four of us: Lord Avon, his brother Captain Barrington, Sir Lothian Hume, and myself. Of the Captain I knew little, save that he was not of the best repute, and was deep in the hands of the Jews. Sir Lothian has made an evil name for himself since—’tis the same Sir Lothian who shot Lord Carton in the affair at Chalk Farm—but in those days there was nothing against him. The oldest of us was but twenty-four, and we gamed on, as I say, until the Captain had cleared the board. We were all hit, but our host far the hardest. “That night—I tell you now what it would be a bitter thing for me to tell in a court of law—I was restless and sleepless, as often happens when a man has kept awake over long. My mind would dwell upon the fall of the cards, and I was tossing and turning in my bed, when suddenly a cry fell upon my ears, and then a second louder one, coming from the direction of Captain Barrington’s room. Five minutes later I heard steps passing down the passage, and, without striking a light, I opened my door and peeped out, thinking that some one was taken unwell. There was Lord Avon walking towards me. In one hand he held a guttering candle and in the other a brown bag, which chinked as he moved. His face was all drawn and distorted—so much so that my question was frozen upon my lips. Before I could utter it he turned into his chamber and softly closed the door. “Next morning I was awakened by finding him at my bedside. “‘Charles,’ said he, ‘I cannot abide to think that you should have lost this money in my house. You will find it here upon your table.’ “It was in vain that I laughed at his squeamishness, telling him that I should most certainly have claimed my money had I won, so that it would be strange indeed if I were not permitted to pay it when I lost. “‘Neither I nor my brother will touch it,’ said he. ‘There it lies, and you may do what you like about it.’ “He would listen to no argument, but dashed out of the room like a madman. But perhaps these details are familiar to you, and God knows they are painful to me to tell.” My father was sitting with staring eyes, and his forgotten pipe reeking in his hand. “Pray let us hear the end of it, sir,” he cried.