Always it seemed that when his supposed wrongs were referred to a sort of semi-madness came upon Jervis Fanshawe, so that he lost control of himself, and was at first unable to speak. Such a madness was upon him now; he had to gasp and open his lips once or twice, and to stretch out a hand towards me, and even clutch at his throat a little before he was able to speak at all. And when he did at last, his voice was hoarse and unnatural with excitement. "They--they ruined me; they stood me in the dock on charges of forgery and fraud; they forgot all my years of service. I had had to get the money from somewhere to satisfy that beast Hockley; I got it from them, meaning to pay it back when the luck changed. It never did change, and Hockley's death finished me. Then, when I came out of prison, old Patton was dead and Savell was established. And I found another man taking my revenge from me, and robbing Savell, and draining him dry. And I wormed myself in with that man, and made myself useful to him--just as you will do, Charlie--just as you're going to do from to-night. He's a fine fellow, this Murray Olivant; he'll break them up, and make a beggar of Savell--and he'll get the girl. Think of that, Charlie; the Barbara for whom you've worn out your heart and your life in prison is dead, and the new Barbara shall be at the beck and call of this man--who won't treat her any too well, I'll warrant. There's a revenge for you!" I was afraid to ask any direct question as to the boy I had seen with this new Barbara in the wood; I feared that Fanshawe must know at once if I did that I had been down to spy out the land. But I asked, a little wistfully perhaps, a question that artfully concealed what I already knew. "Is it not possible that this girl--this other Barbara--loves some one else?" "And what if she does?" he snapped at me; "they've all got fads and fancies, and so much the worse for them. This little fool, for instance, believes herself to be in love with a boy who hasn't a penny--just such a young jackanapes as you were twenty years ago. In fact, he paints, as you tried to do. He's a starveling dog--just as you were." "Who is he?" I asked. "He's half-brother to our friend Olivant, whose mother married again, and died when she gave the boy to the world. They call him Arnold Millard, and he's dependent on his half-brother for the clothes he wears and the food he eats. And yet, forsooth, has the cheek to step in and pretend to be in love with the girl destined for the other man." "But her father--Lucas Savell--what does he say?"