Raymond, the elder, was the richest of the De Costa clan. He was fat and wheezy; his face was swollen with good living and self-indulgence--for he denied himself none of the excellencies of life. It was not an attractive face, though the two black eyes that burned all the time as though with fever, were fascinating. They were “seeing” eyes; they watched and absorbed all things within their radius. They were terribly alive and eager. They seemed to denote and indicate a separate existence to that which the gross, unshapely body of the man enjoyed. The elder man--he must have been sixty--raised his be-ringed hand and gently caressed the stubble of grey moustache on his upper lip. He was contemplating this dreadful son of his, from his sleek, shiny head, to his sleek, shiny boots. “Gregory,” he said after a while, “have you seen the papers this morning?” The younger man shook his head. “No,” he admitted, though in the admission he knew he might earn a reproof, for he was undergoing a course of education which included a knowledge of the daily happenings of life. To his surprise the inevitable lecture was not forthcoming. Instead---- “The Chinese Ambassador was murdered last night,” said his father softly. Gregory stared. There was something in the very gentleness of Raymond de Costa’s voice which made the younger man feel uncomfortable. “Murdered--poor devil!” he said. “Was that where you went last night? I suppose they sent for you?” Raymond sat upright suddenly. “Where I went! What do you mean?” he demanded harshly. “I went nowhere.” “I thought I heard you come in at one o’clock,” said the youth, reaching for an apple from the table. “I didn’t sleep too well.” The other frowned. “I did not come in for an excellent reason,” he said with asperity; “I was in bed at eleven o’clock and I did not stir out of my bed until Thomas brought my coffee this morning.” The young man was unconvinced. “But, governor,” he protested, “I saw Thomas with your boots, and they were all covered with mud.” The old man thumped the table with a snarl of anger. “I wasn’t out of the house last night, I tell you!” Gregory de Costa was alarmed at the storm he had brought down upon his head. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled apologetically. “I must have dreamt it.” “What is this about you’re not sleeping well?” demanded the other, changing the conversation abruptly. “Are you ill?” “Ill? No; it’s nothing! I’m just feeling a bit rotten.” He got up from the table and walked disconsolately to the window, gazing gloomily into the street. “Is it that girl of yours?” asked his father with a slight smile. “Which girl?” asked the other resentfully “Do you mean Miss Yale?” “Who else?” The youth was silent for a while. “She’s not my girl by any means, governor,” he said despairingly. “I wish to heaven she was! She treats me like dirt--absolutely like dirt!” Raymond de Costa smiled.