"And where exactly does the good-fortune part of it come in?" I asked at length. "This way," he answered. "They idolized the boy, and he certainly was the first thing in their lives. But when he died, the thing that came only one degree behind their love for him of necessity took first place.... Family.... While he lived, the two things were synonymous: they both centred in the boy himself.... And he was a splendid boy—better even than this one." Again he paused, and smoked for a while in silence. "You see—Betty Fingarton was too old to have another child, when the accident took place ... I think that fact hastened her death. And the man who would have come into the title was an outsider of the purest water—a distant cousin of sorts.... Bob used to move about like a man in a dream—dazed with the tragedy of it all. But I remember that even then, before she died, he realized that her death would—how shall I put it—help matters. Not that he ever said anything: but I knew Bob pretty well those days ... I’ve lost sight of him a bit since.... It was a horrible position for the poor old chap. The Fingartons have kept their line direct since 1450. Family was his God ... and he idolized Betty. Then she died; and Bob married again.... Quite a nice girl, and she made him a thundering good wife.... But he told me the night before he married, that the price of duty could sometimes be passing high.... It was with him...." My host paused and sipped his brandy, while the girl at my side whispered a little breathlessly: "I didn’t know all that, daddy. Poor old Uncle Bob!" I looked at her inquiringly, and she smiled. "He’s always been uncle to me," she explained. "Though lately I’ve hardly seen him at all.... He buries himself more and more up at Fingarton...." "And what of the present Lady Fingarton?" I inquired. "I like her—she’s a dear," answered the girl. "Though I think daddy always compares her with the first one." Her father smiled, but said nothing. "She is generally here in Town.... She likes to be near Bobby...." For a while we were silent, while the soft strains of the orchestra stole through the smoke-laden air above the hum of conversation.... It had gripped me—the picture painted by Bill Lakington, in his short clipped sentences. The tragedy of it—and, as he had said, the good fortune too.... Duty: pride of family—aye, they have their price. Mayhap Betty Fingarton was paying her share in the knowledge that the next of the line was not her son.... Or did she, with clearer vision, understand the workings of the Great Architect, which at first must have seemed so inscrutable?... "When is the wedding?" I asked. "In about a month," said the girl. "Everyone will be there." "Personally," I murmured, "I shall be one of the forty or fifty odd million who won’t. So you can send me an account of it." "Where are you going, Sir Richard?"