For a moment the two men stood at gaze without speaking, though Gaston stepped forward respectfully. A bewildered, almost shrinking look came into Sir William’s eyes, as the other stood full in the light of the candles. Presently the old man spoke. In spite of conventional smoothness, his voice had the ring of distance, which comes from having lived through and above painful things. “My servant announced you as Sir Gaston Belward. There is some mistake?” “There is a mistake,” was the slow reply. “I did not give my name as Sir Gaston Belward. That was Falby’s conclusion, sir. But I am Gaston Robert Belward, just the same.” Sir William was dazed, puzzled. He presently made a quick gesture, as if driving away some foolish thought, and, motioning to a chair, said: “Will you be seated?” They both sat, Sir William by his writing-table. His look was now steady and penetrating, but he met one just as firm. “You are--Gaston Robert Belward? May I ask for further information?” There was furtive humour playing at Gaston’s mouth. The old man’s manner had been so unlike anything he had ever met, save, to an extent, in his father, that it interested him. He replied, with keen distinctness: “You mean, why I have come--home?” Sir William’s fingers trembled on a paper-knife. “Are you-at home?” “I have come home to ask for my heritage--with interest compounded, sir.” Sir William was now very pale. He got to his feet, came to the young man, peered into his face, then drew back to the table and steadied himself against it. Gaston rose also: his instinct of courtesy was acute--absurdly civilised--that is, primitive. He waited. “You are Robert’s son?” “Robert Belward was my father.” “Your father is dead?” “Twelve years ago.” Sir William sank back in his chair. His thin fingers ran back and forth along his lips. Presently he took out his handkerchief and coughed into it nervously. His lips trembled. With a preoccupied air he arranged a handful of papers on the table. “Why did you not come before?” he asked at last, in a low, mechanical voice. “It was better for a man than a boy to come.” “May I ask why?” “A boy doesn’t always see a situation--gives up too soon--throws away his rights. My father was a boy.” “He was twenty-five when he went away.” “I am fifty!” Sir William looked up sharply, perplexed. “Fifty?” “He only knew this life: I know the world.” “What world?” “The great North, the South, the seas at four corners of the earth.” Sir William glanced at the top-boots, the peeping sash, the strong, bronzed face. “Who was your mother?” he asked abruptly. “A woman of France.” The baronet made a gesture of impatience, and looked searchingly at the young man. All at once Gaston shot his bolt, to have it over. “She had Indian blood also.” He stretched himself to his full height, easily, broadly, with a touch of defiance, and leaned an arm against the mantel, awaiting Sir William’s reply.