Forest glanced doubtfully from the one to the other. And the one thing which powerfully impressed him was—not the anger of his master, not the presumption of the caller, but a curious intangible likeness in those two faces; a likeness which could not be defined, but which was undeniable. Mr. Stirling stood up slowly. The younger man's eyes met his, and there was a swift crossfire, a brief, silent passage-at-arms, which ended in victory for the newcomer. Mr. Stirling said— "Very well. I will give you five minutes. You may go, Forest." "I beg your pardon for insisting," Maurice said when the door was shut. "But insist I must. A few words with you are necessary." He hesitated, noting the Squire's changed and haggard look. "You are not well!" The remark was put aside. "What, pray, is the meaning of this?" Mr. Stirling demanded. "You know that in coming here, you break conditions—" "Unreasonable conditions!" "Allow me to finish, if you please. Conditions, upon which your mother's claim to a lifelong pension rest." "I cannot help it! There are times when a man must judge for himself,— must put aside other considerations. I have a question to put; and I intend to have an answer." "No doubt in reference to Doris Winton. I have heard of that folly." "It is in reference to my love for Doris Winton. My life's happiness depends on marrying her; and one great obstacle stands in the way. Mr. Stirling—who was my father?" No answer was vouchsafed. "Is he living now?" "No." "When did he die?" "Just after the birth of your sister Winnie." "Was his name really Maurice?" The Squire's face was set in a hard mask. He said—"Yes." "What was his standing?" "A gentleman of education,—and of good connections." "How did he come to marry my mother?" "He had been ill,—and she gained some sort of hold over him. I can only call it insanity. He deeply regretted his action later, there is no doubt,—and none of his own people knew of the marriage till after his death." "Then he punished his wife for his own folly. The brute!" burst out Maurice. A deep flush spread itself over the Squire's face. He sat down suddenly; and Maurice saw the shaking hands, the trembling underlip. He took a seat himself, unasked, and made an effort to speak calmly. "I am sorry to distress you, but I can put off no longer. Things cannot go on like this. I must know more. One fact you have made clear to me. That is, that the man who married my mother was a cad at heart, though he may have been a gentleman by birth. How, otherwise, could he have visited his own weakness upon a woman—his wife!" "You are speaking of your father—remember!" "No father to be proud of!" "He was good to her, I believe,—always—" "I don't call that being good to her." "It is not possible for you—knowing so little—to estimate his position. You pass judgment, not understanding."