The voices that had frightened Mrs. March off were those of Sir Nelson and Maxwell Fair, who now came round the corner of the tower, with heads bowed in very earnest talk. The elder man had been the most intimate friend of the younger man’s father, and on the death of the latter Sir Nelson had assumed an informal guardianship of the erratic and wilful son. But while others were disappointed and baffled during the earlier years of Maxwell Fair’s manhood, Sir Nelson Poynter swore by him and predicted that all would be well in time. Fully had Maxwell Fair’s more recent career justified the confidence of his father’s old friend. It was with the shock of surprise, as well as the natural sorrow of a friend, that Sir Nelson had just been hearing Fair speak in indefinite terms of some impending catastrophe that was to terminate in blight his brilliant and successful life. “By Jove, my boy,” Sir Nelson was saying as they reached the terrace and began pacing up and down, “it distresses me unspeakably to hear your father’s son talking in this way. Of course, I shall do all I can—whatever you may ask of me—but don’t you think that you should make a clean breast of everything? It is nothing new to see a Fair acting from some high, compelling motive, which strikes us ordinary men as quixotic, but your fathers always did whatever they did in the open. They may have been enthusiasts and unpractical crusaders, but nobody could complain that they fought under a mask. Their object may sometimes have seemed chimerical, but in the struggle to reach it they wore their coat-of-arms where men could see it, and proclaimed their principles with trumpet blasts. Out with it, man! What in God’s name is it all?” “I thank you, Sir Nelson,” quietly replied Fair, taking up his argument and appeal at the point where Sir Nelson had interrupted him. “You have relieved my mind by consenting to act as my executor. You will, I think, find my affairs in tolerably good order. Everything goes to Miss Mettleby—everything, so there will be little to do in the way of settlement.” “To Miss Mettleby?” exclaimed Sir Nelson, confronting Fair with perfect consternation and disapproval. “To Miss Mettleby, you say? She is your children’s governess, is she not? My God, boy, there has been no—your wife and children, you know! What will be thought of this?” “I have settled five hundred thousand pounds on Mrs. Fair and the children—long ago, as I think you know, so I can leave the rest to Miss Mettleby with justice and propriety,” answered Fair calmly.