The words he read had aroused within him a suspicion--a grave, terrible, awful suspicion. In those moments of deep contemplation he looked fully ten years older. His hand rested upon the high overmantel of black oak, on which was a carved representation of the simple coat of the Shropshire Chisholms, azure, a chevron, or between three water-bougets argent. His brow rested upon his arm as he gazed at the glowing logs. Truth to tell, that confidential document had caused a flood of recollections to surge through his brain--recollections whose return he did not desire. He had vainly thought the past all buried, and had forgiven and forgotten his enemy. But, reading between the lines of that despatch, he saw that this ghost of the past had again arisen. Lord Stockbridge had, of course, no suspicion of the truth. The confidential communication had been made to him in the ordinary course of events, in order that he might institute secret inquiries in certain quarters, and ascertain the feeling of certain influential members in the House. But if the truth became known? He set his jaws hard, and a deep sigh escaped him. He dared not contemplate the result. It would mean for him ruin, ignominy, shame. He passed his hot hand wearily across his brow, pushing the thick dark hair from his forehead. The dead silence was broken by a low groan--a groan of despair and penitence. "God!" he gasped. "Surely the truth cannot possibly be known? How can it? No," he went on, murmuring to himself. "Bah! I'm timid--thoughts of it always unnerve me. And yet from this it seems very much as if some secret enemy had waited through these years until I had attained position and popularity in order to strike, to crush, to ruin me for ever!" He was silent again, silent for many minutes. He stood quite motionless, still gazing into the fire. "But dare I face exposure?" he asked himself, his hoarse whisper sounding strangely in that old room. "No. A thousand times no! No-- impossible! A thousand times no! I'd prefer death. Yes, suicide. It would be the only way. Death is far preferable to dishonour." He saw it all--he who could read between those lines. He detected the hand of some secret enemy uplifted against him--an enemy who, he did not doubt, held that secret which through the past six years had been the skeleton in his cupboard. In the esteem of men he had risen rapidly, until to-day he was declared to be one of the shrewdest of England's legislators, fulfilling all the traditions of his ancient and honourable house. And through out these six years he had striven, and striven, always with an idea of atonement for his cardinal sin; always working in the interests of the nation he had resolved to serve. How strange it was that His Majesty's Foreign Minister should have actually communicated this to him, of all men! But man works half his own doom, and circumstance the other half. _C'est toujours le destin_.