So far from suspecting a communication of an unpleasant nature, young Lucius Haggard, his face wreathed in anticipatory smiles, was impatiently drumming upon the window-pane in the library with his finger-tips. It seemed to him that this formal interview with his mother and his father's executor could have but one object, namely, to announce to him that a suitable provision was to be made for the heir to the Pit Town title during the short time that must necessarily elapse ere he should come into his heritage. But his anticipations were considerably damped by Lord Spunyarn's first words. The elder man placed his hand affectionately upon the young fellow's shoulder. "Lucius, my poor boy," he said, "prepare yourself for a surprise, and a great disappointment," he added ominously. The happy smile of anticipation left the young fellow's face as he heard the words. "Well, Lord Spunyarn," he said, "when my father cut me off without even the proverbial shilling, I thought he had done the worst he could for me." Lord Spunyarn took no notice of the remark. "My poor fellow," he said, "steel yourself to hear what I have to tell you. I will tell you now," he added, "to spare your poor mother the pain and horror of having the sad story repeated in her presence. Lucius," he said solemnly, "you are no longer the heir to the Pit Town title, and all that goes with it." "Good heavens!" cried the young man as he sank into a chair, "it can't be true. Did Hetton contract a secret marriage, and is there a son? Does the old man know of it?" "It isn't that, Lucius. Compose yourself," Spunyarn added after a short pause, "and listen to what I have to tell you. This thing concerns you and your brother only. Lucius, bear it like a man, but, my poor boy, you are illegitimate." "Did my mother dare----" he began, but Spunyarn stopped him with a gesture. "Lucius," he said severely, "the lady who has allowed you to call her mother from the time you were a little child, did so out of kindness; speak no ill word of her, my boy, for to her you owe everything, to her love, and to her forbearance." "Great God! Lord Spunyarn, it can't be true, there is some base plot in the matter. Who is the heir, the man who calls himself the heir, I mean?" he asked fiercely, and he clenched his hands; and his eyes, Lucy Warrender's eyes, sparkled with mingled rage and hate. "We shall contest the thing, of course?" "The heir, Lucius, the rightful heir, is your brother George; he was born in wedlock, while you, alas, though your father's son, are----" "Not base born; don't say that, Lord Spunyarn." But Spunyarn nodded sadly.