"I should be the last to speak, Mr. Eversleigh. You asked me for my opinion, and I gave it you, candid. But as to expressing my sentiments in the servants' hall, I should as soon think of standing on my head. In the first place, I don't take my meals in the servants' hall, but in the steward's room; and it's very seldom I hold any communication whatever with under-servants. It don't do, Mr. Eversleigh--you may think me 'aughty; but it don't do. If upper-servants want to be respected by under-servants, they must first respect themselves." "Well, well, Millard; I know I can rely upon your discretion. You can leave me now--my mind is quite unhinged by this dreadful event." No sooner had the valet departed than Reginald hurried from the castle, and walked across the garden to the gate by which he had encountered Victor Carrington on the previous day. He had no appointment with Victor, and did not even know if he were still in the neighbourhood; but he fancied it was just possible the surgeon might be waiting for him somewhere without the boundary of the garden. He was not mistaken. A few minutes after passing through the gateway, he saw the figure of the pedlar approaching him under the shade of the spreading beeches. "I am glad you are here," said Reginald; "I fancied I might find you somewhere hereabouts." "And I have been waiting and watching about here for the last two hours. I dared not trust a messenger, and could only take my chance of seeing you." "You have heard of--of--" "I have heard everything, I believe." "What does it mean, Victor?--what does it all mean?" "It means that you are a wonderfully lucky fellow; and that, instead of waiting thirty years to see your uncle grow a semi-idiotic old dotard, you will step at once into one of the finest estates in England." "You knew, then, that the will was made last night?" "Well, I guessed as much." "You have seen Millard?" "No, I have not seen Millard." "How could you know of my uncle's will, then? It was only executed last night." "Never mind how I know it, my dear Reginald. I do know it. Let that be enough for you." "It is too terrible," murmured the young man, after a pause; "it is too terrible." "What is too terrible?" "This sudden death." "Is it?" cried Victor Carrington, looking full in his companion's face, with an expression of supreme scorn. "Would you rather have waited thirty years for these estates? Would you rather have waited twenty years?--ten years? No, Reginald Eversleigh, you would not. I know you better than you know yourself, and I will answer for you in this matter. If your uncle's life had lain in your open palm last night, and the closing of your hand would have ended it, your hand would have closed, Mr. Eversleigh, affectionate nephew though you be. You are a hypocrite, Reginald. You palter with your own conscience. Better to be like me and have no conscience, than to have one and palter with it as you do."