"You have altered all your former dispositions," said the Canon. "Yes. I have been thinking things carefully over. I daren't trust him, that scamp. He has simply gone from bad to worse, and would make ducks and drakes of the lot. Percival won't." "That scamp!" The hardly perceptible quiver in his old friend's voice as he uttered the word, did not escape the shrewd ecclesiastic. Indeed, to that skilled and experienced master of human nature in all its phases, the state of his friend's mind at this moment was a very wide open book. "Are you sure of yourself, Canterby?" he said. "Is it quite just to entail upon him so ruthlessly sweeping a penalty as this? Are you sure of yourself?" "Of course I am." "No, you're not. My dear old friend, you can't throw dust in my eyes. You are not sure of yourself. Then why not give him another chance?" "Why, that's just what I have done. Anybody else would have cut him off with a shilling--with the traditional shilling. By George, sir, they would." Canon Lenthall smiled to himself, for he knew that when a man of his friend's temperament begins to wax warm in an argument of this sort, it is a sure sign that he is arguing against himself. He considered the victory almost won. Turning over the sheets of the draft once more, he read out a clause--slowly and deliberately: "To my nephew, Hilary Blachland, I bequeath the sum of two hundred pounds--in case he might find himself in such a position that its possession would afford him a last chance." "Well?" queried Sir Luke. "Please note two things, Canterby," said the Canon. "First you say I am to advise you, then that I am to read this document and make any remarks I like." "Of course." "Well then, I'll take you at your word. I advise you to draw your pen right through that clause." "Why? Hilary is an irreclaimable scamp." "No, he is not." "Not, eh? `St. Clair, St. Clair and Blachland.' Have you forgotten that, Canon?" snorted Sir Luke. "_And_ Blachland! My nephew!" "How long ago was that?" "How long ago? Why, you know as well as I do. Six years. Rather over than under." "Yes. Six years is a long time. Time enough for a man to recognise that he has made worse than a fool of himself. How do you know that Hilary has not come to recognise that--is not doing all he can to wipe out that sin?" "Exactly. How do I know? That's just it. He has never had the grace or decency to let me know that he has--to let me know whether he's dead or alive." The other smiled to himself. "That's not the solitary one of his carryings on, either. Yes. He's an out-and-out scamp." "I don't agree with you, Canterby. The very fact that he has refrained from communicating with you makes for the contrary. It is a sign of grace. Had he been the scamp you--_don't_ believe him to be, you'd have heard from him fast enough, with some pitiful appeal for assistance." "But he ought to have let me hear. I might be thinking him dead."