“Did you think that I was jealous of you? Why, man, if I had loved your cousin with one-hundredth part of the love I have for that other, I should have taken you by the throat last night when you said what you did. Jealous of you? No, but of that man whose years protect him from my anger, though they have not protected youth and innocence from him. It is Lord Severn, not you, who has robbed me of the woman I love; and let me tell you that if I had no other reason for breaking the hollow, lying pledge I gave last night, I would sooner cut off this hand than give it to the daughter of the man who is guilty of Belle Yorke’s betrayal!” “My God!” Mauleverer sat transfixed as the whole truth of the situation burst upon him. Twice he opened his lips to speak, and twice he recollected that the secret had been intrusted to his honor. He was on the point of springing to his feet to go, when the door opened and the footman came in. “A Mr. Yorke, sir, wishes to see you. He is in the hall,” announced the stately creature with icy impassibility. “Mr. Yorke?” repeated Hammond, bewildered. “He is a rather young man, sir.” The information was vouchsafed with a crushing absence of emotion. “I should judge him to be about thirteen.” Hammond started and changed color. Then he said with quiet emphasis: “Show the young gentleman in.” If ever footman permitted himself to show human feelings, assuredly a faint gleam of something resembling surprise played across the visage of that footman as he withdrew. “Who is it?” asked Mauleverer, amused. “Belle Yorke’s brother.” The footman threw open the door. With perfect self-control, with a beautiful unconsciousness of whether he was announcing a member of the royal family or a detective with a warrant for his master’s arrest, he uttered the words: “Mr. Yorke.” The captain saw a rather undersized boy in knickerbockers, with his fists tightly clenched and a flush of excitement on his cheeks, who walked boldly into the centre of the room, and there stood still. Hammond, who had already risen, went towards the boy with extended hand. Mr. Yorke drew back, and kept his own hands down by his side. “I’d rather not shake hands with you, please, Mr. Hammond.” The man started, and dropped his hand with a strange look. “Will you sit down?” he asked, quietly. “I’d rather not, please.” Hammond bowed, and remained standing himself. “I’ve come to see you about my sister. Miss Belle Yorke. She hasn’t any father, you know, so I’m her protector.” “Yes, my boy, I’m sure you are,” said Hammond, very gently. Mr. Yorke went on, with a certain feverish energy: