Again came his father's sidelong glance. "Selfish?" "Yes; Vita. I must find her. I must help her. I must unravel the mystery of it all, or--what is the use of all that I had hoped to achieve? Dad, I no longer blind myself. I have only just awakened to life. All the hopes and longings of the past belong to a time when I still remained slumbering to the real meaning of life. Now, compared with the meaning of life which I have just awakened to, they are mere cold, meaningless products of the brain. They are nothing, simply nothing to this new vista which has just opened out to me. I doubt if you'll understand, if any one can understand but myself." "No?" There was that twinkling smile in the old man's eyes. "No. There is only one thought in me now. I must save Vita; I must save Vita from our enemies. Perhaps, even, I must save her from herself. How can I expect any one to understand all it means to me, how absurd seem all those other things which I had counted as vital?" "And yet I loved your mother." Ruxton walked on a few steps without reply. A flush had mounted to his handsome cheeks. Then he abruptly paused, and in the depths of his eyes was a shamefaced smile. "I'm sorry, Dad," he cried. "Forgive the egoism of a man--in love." His father's smiling eyes were full of a deep sympathy. "No, no, boy; no apologies. You are no different from the rest of us. We all feel the same at some time in our lives, and we all believe no one else has ever felt as we do. Work out your plans, boy. Forget Dorby; forget everything else for the time. Give your whole heart and time to straightening out the tangle your love affairs seem to be in. And when you have succeeded, bring her to me. For the rest, I am your deputy in the work which must still go on; and, believe me, I shall not fail you. There goes the gong." The deep note of the gong seemed to rise out of its metal bowels; it crescendoed, and finally died away. The two men passed silently into the house and removed their light overcoats. Ruxton's emotion was too deep for words. His father's sympathy and loyalty were almost overpowering to a nature as sensitive as his. He wanted to tell him all he felt. He wanted to pour out his gratitude. He wanted to show him something of the great love he had always borne him. But it was impossible. He did none of these things because they were men--men of a temperament and schooling that made such a display impossible. So, in silence, they prepared to make their way to the dining-room. But affairs were busier than either of them knew. In a very few minutes every other emotion became lost in the surge of events. Just as they were about to leave the hall a man-servant appeared from the direction of the servants' quarters. He was about to pass up-stairs, bearing a tray. The quick eyes of Sir Andrew observed the pile of letters he was carrying up to the library. Without regard for the moment he stayed him. "Is that the post just in?" he demanded.