“Um—um. And the young woman’s mother—what of her? You say she was an Englishwoman.” “Her mother, Sir Gilbert Clare, was my sister,” replied the Captain as he laid his hand over the region of his heart and bent his head, while his look said as plainly as words, “After that statement, it would be nothing less than an impertinence on your part to inquire further.” Sir Gilbert bowed with his most courtly air. “Thank you very much, Captain Verinder,” he said. Then, after stroking his chin for a few seconds, he went on: “May I ask, sir, whether your visit here to-day is with the knowledge and sanction of your niece—that is to say of the—the lady whom you allege to be the widow of my son?” “Had my visit not been undertaken at her express desire, it would not have taken place at all.” “Um. Then will it be thought presumptuous on my part to ask by what particular motive your niece is actuated in asking you, after a silence which has lasted nearly a score of years, to bring under my notice certain facts hitherto, I admit, unknown to me, but which, for anything which has yet been advanced to the contrary, might just as well have been left in the oblivion to which, apparently, they have for so long a time been consigned.” There was a veiled insolence in this request, or so it seemed to Verinder, which sent an angry flush mounting to the very roots of his dyed hair. It was only by a supreme effort that he succeeded in keeping back the retort that rose to his lips. Not till he had drawn several breaths did he trust himself to reply. Then he said: “Should you condescend, Sir Gilbert, to grant my niece an interview, you will find her amply prepared to furnish you with such an explanation of her long silence as, I venture to think, you will find it impossible to cavil at. But the one great reason which has induced her, at what may be called the eleventh hour, to rake certain facts out of oblivion, as you have so expressively termed it, and bring them before you, is, because it seems to her an imperative duty that you should no longer be left in ignorance of the existence of your grandson—of the son of your son, the late John Alexander Clare.” “What is that you say?” almost shrieked Sir Gilbert. “A grandson! the child of my son Alec—and alive!” “Very much alive, Sir Gilbert, if you will allow me to say so,” returned the Captain, with something between a grin and a sneer. “And as fine, and handsome, and clever a young man as you would find in a day’s march.” Sir Gilbert lay back in his chair, his chin drooping on his breast and his eyes closed. His face was of a ghastly pallor, his lips moved inaudibly. In the shock of Verinder’s news he had forgotten the man’s presence. An invisible hand had snatched him away. He was there in body but for the time his spirit was otherwhere.