‘Of my early life,’ went on Austin, ‘I do not think I need say much. I expect’—he looked at Tanner—‘you know all about it. You know that, while we never had an open breach, my father and I did not pull well together. We looked at things from such different points of view that our intercourse only produced irritation. My father wished me to read for the bar with the idea of entering Parliament, and trying for a seat in the Ministry. I was not ambitious in that direction, but preferred literary work, and scientific research. Therefore, as you no doubt are aware, I found it irksome at home, and I set up my own establishment in Halford. But that we remained good friends was proved by my father’s moving to Luce Manor at my suggestion. With my mother I was always in sympathy. She was easygoing, and deferred without protest to my father’s decisions, but never at any time was there the slightest cloud between us. So things had gone on for years, and so they went on until this terrible business began.’ Austin moved nervously in his chair, glancing quickly round the little group. ‘On Sunday, 4th July,’ he resumed, ‘occurred the first event of this unhappy tragedy, so far as I was concerned. I received by that morning’s post a letter from my father, saying he wished to see me on very private business, and asking me to dine and spend that evening with him. He directed me to destroy his letter, and not refer to the matter to anyone. ‘Considerably surprised, I burnt the note, and duly went out to Luce Manor in time for dinner. When the meal was over my father and I retired to his study, and there when our cigars were alight, he said he had a very grievous and terrible secret to impart to me which would doubtless give me considerable pain. He locked the door, then sitting down he told me what I believe you already know. ‘“My boy,” he said, “we have not perhaps pulled it off together as well as I could have wished, and when you hear what I have to tell you, I fear you may be tempted to think more bitterly of me than I deserve. But I can assure you on my honour, that in this terrible affair I acted in perfectly good faith all through. Until four years ago I was as ignorant as you are still that there was anything wrong.” ‘“I don’t understand,” I said. ‘“No,” he answered, “but you will soon.” ‘Then he told me of his early life, and that of the two Dales; of his falling in love with my mother, Ethel Osborne; of the rivalry between himself and Tom Dale for her hand; of Dale’s success; of the miserable married life of the couple; of Dale’s mission to Canada, and of his presumed death in the _Numidian_ disaster, and of my father’s own marriage with the widow. All this I had known more or less vaguely before, and I could not understand why my father recited the circumstances in such detail. But he soon made it clear to me.