“Did I never tell you the story? Then if you care to step back into my office I will. It is not a long one. You remember when our friend”—he nodded towards the office—“kept the hounds, and they used to call him ‘hard-riding Atterleigh’?” “Yes, I remember, and ruined himself over them, like a fool.” “And of course you remember Mary Atterleigh, his daughter, whom we were all in love with when we were young?” Mr. de Talor’s broad cheek took a deeper shade of crimson as he nodded assent. “Then,” went on Mr. Cardus, in a voice meant to be indifferent, but which now and again gave traces of emotion, “you will also remember that I was the fortunate man, and, with her father’s consent, was engaged to be married to Mary Atterleigh so soon as I could show him that my income reached a certain sum.” Here Mr. Cardus paused a moment, and then continued, “But I had to go to America about the great Norwich bank case, and it was a long job, and travelling was slow then. When I got back, Mary was—married to a man called Jones, a friend of yours, Mr. de Talor. He was staying at your house, Ceswick’s Ness, when he met her. But perhaps you are better acquainted with that part of the story than I am.” Mr. de Talor was looking very uneasy again now. “No, I know nothing about it. Jones fell in love with her like the rest, and the next I heard of it was that they were to be married. It was rather rough on you, eh, Cardus? but, Lord, you shouldn’t have been fool enough to trust her.” Mr. Cardus smiled, a bitter smile. “Yes, it was a little ‘rough,’ but that has nothing to do with my story. The marriage did not turn out well; a curious fatality pursued all who had had any hand in it. Mary had two children; and then did the best thing she could do—died of shame and sorrow. Jones, who was rich, went fraudulently bankrupt, and ended by committing suicide. Hard-riding Atterleigh flourished for a while, and then lost his money in horses and a ship-building speculation, and got a paralytic stroke that took away all his speech and most of his reason. Then I brought him here to save him from the madhouse.” “That was kind of you, Cardus.” “O no, he is worth his keep, and besides, he is poor Mary’s father. He is under the fixed impression that I am the devil; but that does not matter.” “You’ve got her children too, eh?” “Yes, I have adopted them. The girl reminds me of her mother, though she will never have her mother’s looks. The boy is like old Atterleigh. I do not care about the boy. But, thank God, they are neither of them like their father.” “So you knew Jones?” said De Talor, sharply.