“There isn’t very much to tell you. Only, I’d like you to know--to be a pal to her, if you can, Jean.” He paused, then went on quickly: “They married her to him when she was hardly more than a child--barely seventeen. She’s only nineteen now. Sir Adrian is practically a millionaire, and Claire’s father and mother were in low water--trying to cut a dash in society on nothing a year. So--they sold Claire. Sir Adrian paid their debts and agreed to make them a handsome allowance. And they let her go to him, knowing, then, that he had already begun to take drugs.” “_How could they?_” burst from Jean in a strangled whisper. Nick nodded. His eyes, meeting hers, had lost their gay good humour and were dull and lack-lustre. “Yes, you’d wonder how, wouldn’t you?” he said. His voice rasped a little. “Still--they did it. Then, later on, the Latimers came to Charnwood, and Claire and I met. It didn’t take long to love her--you can understand that, can’t you?” “Oh, Nick--yes! She is so altogether lovable.” “But understand this, too,”--and the sudden sternness that gripped his speech reminded her sharply of his brother--“we recognise that that is all there can ever be between us. Just the knowledge that we love each other. I think even that helps to make her life--more bearable.” He fell silent, and presently Jean stretched out a small, friendly hand. “Thank you for telling me, Nick,” she said. “Perhaps some day you’ll be happy--together. You and Claire. It sounds a horrible thing to say--to count on--I know, but a man who takes drugs----” Nick interrupted her with a short laugh. “You needn’t count on Latimer’s snuffing out, if that’s what you mean. He is an immensely strong man--like a piece of steel wire. It will take years for any drug to kill him. I sometimes think”--bitterly--“that it will kill Claire first.” CHAPTER XI--“THE SINS OF THE FATHERS” A FEW days later, Jean, coming in from a long tramp across country in company with Nick and half a dozen dogs of various breeds, discovered Tormarin lounging in a chair by the fire. He was in riding kit, having just returned from visiting an outlying corner of the estates where his bailiff had suggested that a new plantation might be made, and Jean eyed his long supple figure with secret approval. Like most well-built Englishmen, he looked his best in kit that demanded the donning of breeches and leggings. A fine rain was falling out of doors, and beads of moisture clung to Jean’s clothes and sparkled in the blown tendrils of russet hair which had escaped from beneath the little turban hat she was wearing. Apparently, however, her appearance did not rouse Tormarin to any reciprocal appreciation, for, after bestowing the briefest of glances upon her as she entered, he averted his eyes, concentrating his attention upon the misty ribands of smoke that drifted upwards from his cigarette.