The only ray to illumine the black desert of Ostermore's existence was the affection of his ward, Hortensia Winthrop, because in that one instance he had sunk his egotism a little, sparing a crumb of pity--for once in his life--for the child's orphanhood. Had Ostermore been other than the man he was, his existence must have proved a burden beyond his strength. It was so barren of good deeds, so sterile of affection. Yet encrusted as he was in that egotism of his--like the limpet in its shell--my lord perceived nothing of this, suffered nothing of it, understanding nothing. He was all-sufficient to himself. Giving nothing, he looked for nothing, and sought his happiness--without knowing the quest vain--in what he had. The fear of losing this had now in his declining years cast, at length, a shadow upon his existence. Mr. Caryll looked at him almost sorrowfully. Then he put by his thoughts, and broke the silence. “All this I had understood when first I sought you out,” said he. “Yet your lordship did not seem to realize it quite so keenly. Is it that Atterbury and his friends--?” “No, no,” Ostermore broke in. “Look'ee! I will be frank--quite frank and open with you, Mr. Caryll. Things were bad when first you came to me. Yet not so bad that I was driven to a choice of evils. I had lost heavily. But enough remained to bear me through my time, though Rotherby might have found little enough left after I had gone. While that was so, I hesitated to take a risk. I am an old man. It had been different had I been young with ambitions that craved satisfying. I am an old man; and I desired peace and my comforts. Deeming these assured, I paused ere I risked their loss against the stake which in King James's name you set upon the board. But it happens to-day that these are assured no longer,” he ended, his voice breaking almost, his eyes haggard. “They are assured no longer.” “You mean?” inquired Caryll. “I mean that I am confronted by the danger of beggary, ruin, shame, and the sponging-house, at best.” Mr. Caryll was stirred out of his calm. “My lord!” he cried. “How is this possible? What can have come to pass?” The earl was silent for a long while. It was as if he pondered how he should answer, or whether he should answer at all. At last, in a low voice, a faint tinge reddening his face, his eyes averted, he explained. It shamed him so to do, yet must he satisfy that craving of weak minds to unburden, to seek relief in confession. “Mine is the case of Craggs, the secretary of state,” he said. “And Craggs, you'll remember, shot himself.” “My God,” said Mr. Caryll, and opened wide his eyes. “Did you-?” He paused, not knowing what euphemism to supply for the thing his lordship must have done.