“But not with me,” said Mr. Tuke coldly. There was something nameless in the man’s frenzy--an uncleanly savour of passion that was devoid of all nobility. “I can have no objection,” he went on, “to acquaint you of the circumstances that inspired me to so unfortunate a reference.” “If you please, sir,” said the soldier, in a tone that was almost a menace. Sir David saw the blood leap to his new neighbour’s face. “Humour him, humour him,” he whispered, “in the Lord’s name!” “Well, sir,” said Mr. Tuke, “if you will give me your attention, I will endeavour to recall the matter for your behoof”--and he then and there recounted those experiences of his at “Delsrop” that had awakened his suspicions, ending up with the history of the interview between Mr. Joseph Corby and the crazed girl. To this description Sir David listened with some open-mouthed astonishment, and Captain Luvaine with a black concentration of his every faculty upon the minutest details. As the speaker ended, he, the latter, blew out all his restraint in a labouring sigh, and stared before him with eyebrows pulled together like the strings of a purse. “’Tis passing strange,” he muttered. “There can be but one Lake of Wine. Whence does the fellow come, and wherefore?” “That, sir, I know no more than you.” “Blythewood,” said the soldier, turning suddenly on the baronet, “has no tenant been in ‘Delsrop’ since the time of the gallows-bird?” “None, Luvaine, till our friend here.” The other addressed Mr. Tuke with icy civility. “Perhaps I discuss what is yours with undue freedom, sir. My excuse must be that ‘Delsrop’ is a tradition for desolation; and to us of the neighbourhood it hath long been a thickset of mysteries. Here is another, it seems, that I little thought to connect with the place. Is it asking you too great a favour to acquaint me of developments, should they occur?” “By no means. I will undertake that you are informed of the progress of any events that seem to touch upon a certain subject.” The soldier bowed low, and walked to the door. “Why, man--you are never going?” cried Sir David. “You must hold me excused--yes. This strange recountal has vastly disturbed me. I would seek counsel of my pillow.” The door closed behind him. Mr. Tuke turned mutely to his host. “Zounds!” whispered the latter to his silent inquiry. “The beggar is half off his head with life-long brooding over his grievance. The loss occurred in ’76, when I was a child--a brat of two or so. He was a young man when his father died, and I had the story fifty times from Ned here before I was out of my teens. His long face is one of my first remembrances. The families were connected, and he played off the privileges of cousinship upon me to the hilt, by Gad!” “He spoke of me as a neighbour.”