“That was a question I did not fail to put to Mr. Travis. In reply he told me that among the survivors was a person well acquainted with Mr. Alexander, who had been talking to him only a few minutes before the explosion.” “In that case, I am afraid there is no room left for doubt as to the poor fellow’s fate. A sad end, truly, for any one to come to!—I think that will do for the present, Mr. Winch. We will go into other matters later on.” “By-the-way, sir, there is one point which I have not yet mentioned. It is this: When Mr. Alexander, some little time prior to his death, entered into partnership with Mr. Travis, he put the sum of fifteen hundred pounds into the business. That amount Mr. Travis desired me to say that he shall be prepared to refund to Mr. Alexander’s heir-at-law after due substantiation of claim and reasonable notice having been given him.” “Hum! very honourable on the part of Mr. Travis. It is a matter, however, as to which there is no immediate hurry, and in regard to which I can take no steps without instructions.” As soon as Mr. Winch had closed the door behind him the baronet faced round. “It is all true, then!” he exclaimed. “There seems no longer any room for hope.” “None whatever, I am afraid, Sir Gilbert.” “He was my son, Page—my firstborn! I cannot forget that whatever his faults—and they were many—may they lie lightly on his head!” When, on his return home, the baronet broke the news to his wife, that lady, being a fairly good actress, had no difficulty in giving the needful lugubrious twist to her features, but when she strove to eliminate a tear, she was not so successful. “I am so sorry,” she said softly, laying a plump hand for a moment on her husband’s shoulder. “Sorry for his sake, poor fellow!—and sorry for yours. But you must strive not to give way, dear. You may rely upon it that it has been ordained for the best.” To herself she said: “So, after all, the title as well as the estates will come to Randolph! That is only as it should be. I hate the thought of having to go into mourning, but I suppose there’s no help for it.” Poor Lady Clare! No long time elapsed before a marble tablet was placed _in situ_ above the family pew in Withington Church—where there were many more tablets to keep it company—which recorded that it was to the memory of John Alexander Clare, “who was accidentally killed abroad” on such and such a date, “in the twenty-eighth year of his age.” “To think,” said Mr. Winch as he one day read the inscription through his spectacles, “that there are only three people in England who know how that poor young man really came by his death, and that I am one of them! But what reason had he for dropping his surname and hiding his identity? Ah! those are mysteries which I’m afraid I shall never now have a chance of fathoming.”