“You--you dwelt at Maligny?” said his lordship, the usual high color all vanished from his face. And again: “You dwelt at Maligny, and--and--your name is Caryll.” Mr. Caryll looked up quickly, as if suddenly aware that his lordship was expressing surprise. “Why, yes,” said he. “What is there odd in that?” “How does it happen that you come to live there? Are you at all connected with the family of Maligny? On your mother's side, perhaps?” Mr. Caryll took up his wine-glass. “I take it,” said he easily, “that there was some such family at some time. But it is clear it must have fallen upon evil days.” He sipped at his wine. “There are none left now,” he explained, as he set down his glass. “The last of them died, I believe, in England.” His eyes turned full upon the earl, but their glance seemed entirely idle. “It was in consequence of that that my father was enabled to purchase the estate.” Mr. Caryll accounted it no lie that he suppressed the fact that the father to whom he referred was but his father by adoption. Relief spread instantly upon Lord Ostermore's countenance. Clearly, he saw, here was pure coincidence, and nothing more. Indeed, what else should there have been? What was it that he had feared? He did not know. Still he accounted it an odd matter, and said so. “What is odd?” inquired Mr. Caryll. “Does it happen that your lordship was acquainted at any time with that vanished family?” “I was, sir--slightly acquainted--at one time with one or two of its members. 'Tis that that is odd. You see, sir, my name, too, happens to be Caryll.” “True--yet I see nothing so oddly coincident in the matter, particularly if your acquaintance with these Malignys was but slight.” “Indeed, you are right. You are right. There is no such great coincidence, when all is said. The name reminded me of a--a folly of my youth. 'Twas that that made impression.” “A folly?” quoth Mr. Caryll, his eyebrows raised. “Ay, a folly--a folly that went near undoing me, for had it come to my father's ears, he had broke me without mercy. He was a hard man, my father; a puritan in his ideas.” “A greater than your lordship?” inquired Mr. Caryll blandly, masking the rage that seethed in him. His lordship laughed. “Ye're a wag, Mr. Caryll--a damned wag!” Then reverting to the matter that was uppermost in his mind. “'Tis a fact, though--'pon honor. My father would ha' broke me. Luckily she died.” “Who died?” asked Mr. Caryll, with a show of interest. “The girl. Did I not tell you there was a girl? 'Twas she was the folly--Antoinette de Maligny. But she died--most opportunely, egad! 'Twas a very damned mercy that she did. It--cut the--the--what d'ye call it--knot?” “The Gordian knot?” suggested Mr. Caryll. “Ay--the Gordian knot. Had she lived and had my father smoked the affair--Gad! he would ha' broke me; he would so!” he repeated, and emptied his glass.