“Very much; but hardly more than to her brother,” answered Richard. “God knows if I had but my strength,” he cried, almost in despair, and suddenly shooting out his long thin arms, with his two hands, wasted white, at the ends of them, “I would work myself to the bone for them, and not ask you for a penny!” “I provided for their mother!--why didn't they look after the money? _I'm_ not accountable for _them_!” “Ain't you accountable for giving the poor things a mother like that, sir?” “By Jove, you have me there! She _was_ a bad lot--a damned liar!--Young fellow, I don't know who you are, but I like your pluck! There ain't many I'd let stand talking at me like that! I'll give you something for the poor creatures--that is, mind you, if you've told me the truth about their mother! You're sure she's dead? Not a penny shall they have if she's alive!” “I saw her dead, sir, with my own eyes.” “You're sure she wasn't shamming?” “She couldn't have shammed anything so peaceful.” The baronet laughed. “Believe me, sir,” said Richard, “she's dead--and by this time buried by the parish.” “God bless my soul! Well, it's none of my fault!” “She ate and drank her own children!” said Richard with a groan, for his strength was failing him. He sank into a chair. “I will give you a cheque,” said sir Wilton, rising, and going to a writing-table in the window. “I will give you twenty pounds for them in the meantime--and then we'll see--we'll see!--that is,” he added, turning to Richard, “if you swear by God that you have told me nothing but the truth!” “I swear,” said Richard solemnly, “by all my hopes in God the saviour of men, that I have not wittingly uttered a word that is untrue or incorrect.” “That's enough. I'll give you the cheque.” He turned again to the table, sat down, searched for his keys, unlocked and drew out a drawer, took from it a cheque-book, and settled himself to write with deliberation, thinking all the time. When he had done--“Have the goodness to come and fetch your money,” he said tartly. “With pleasure!” answered Richard, and went up to the table. Sir Wilton turned on his seat, and looked him in the face, full in the eyes. Richard steadily encountered his gaze. “What is your name?” said sir Wilton at length. “I must make the cheque payable to you!” “Richard Tuke, sir,” answered Richard. “What are you?” “A bookbinder. I was here all the summer, sir, repairing your library.” “Oh! bless my soul!--Yes! that's what it was! I thought I had seen you somewhere! Why didn't you tell me so at first?” “It had nothing to do with my coming now, and I did not imagine it of any interest to you, sir.” “It would have saved me the trouble of trying to remember where I had seen you!” Then suddenly a light flashed across his face.