“Yes, Pugsley.” He beamed on me delighted. “Of course,” he said; “why didn’t I ever think of that? If I could only catch those two talking together now, I might get at something valuable.” “Which two?” I asked. It appeared that he meant Dalston and Pugsley. Somehow he had got it into his head that they were in league to keep me out of the Skene succession, by pretending that I was not the lawful son of my mother. So much for my power of trenchant summarising. It did not really matter a bit, so long as I could put him harmlessly out of the way. My shot for the parson was quite a happy one. Pugsley would never apprehend that he was being watched; and if he did suspect it, his conceit would put it down to the fascination of his apostolic person. “Very well,” I said. “Pugsley’s your quarry. Don’t wander much from those preserves. Besides, you know, it will employ you about the neighbourhood, and you’d like that.” “Of course I should.” “But there mustn’t be any suspicion of our colluding. You must keep away from _me_, and only communicate by letter.” He jumped to his feet in excitement. “I’ve got it. We’ll have a code. I’ll telegraph to you, Dick.” “All right. Hit out your code.” I left him presently busy over it, full of a shrewd importance. There was a purpose I had in my mind, some information I was hot to obtain, and my eagerness emboldened me to seek it at headquarters. Lord Skene received me very genially in his study. He was dressed in a suit of new tweeds, and looked as fresh and dapper as a boy on his honeymoon. “Well, Gaskett,” he said, “what is it?” I held out to him, title-page open, the book in which I had found the letter the night before. “Yes?” he said, with a sort of curious dryness. “George Thesiger.” “He’s dead, sir?” “Yes, he’s dead.” “May I ask, sir--pray forgive me--was he a great friend of----” I glanced up at the portrait--the bright young face hanging on the wall opposite him. “Of Charlie’s?” he said, but with a certain restraint. “O yes! Charlie and he were immense friends.” I was silent a moment, struggling with my difficulty. He appeared to watch me, even with a painful interest. “What’s on your mind, Richard?” he said at last. The kind tone, the unwonted familiarity, loosened my speech. After all, was I not striking for the honour, the happiness of this good soul, to whom I owed all that of genial tolerance which had accepted and endured me? “Can you tell me, sir,” I burst out with, in broken sentences--“will you tell me--I know I have no right to ask--the--the circumstances of--I really have my reasons, sir--I would not venture otherwise--the--the pain--and the impertinence----” He put his hand across his eyes, and answered me quietly without looking up. “What is it you wish to know?” “Only this, sir,” I said. “The man--his tutor--Delane----” “Yes?” “Did you ever see him?” “No. I was on circuit at the time. He was engaged by my sister, Lady Thorold, in answer to an advertisement.”