The hint given in the Prior's letter concerning Brian's reasons for continuing to teach in the Heron family, together with Hugo's own quickness of perception, had enabled that astute young man to hit upon something very like the exact truth. He had exaggerated it in his conversation with Dino: he had attributed motives to Brian which certainly never entered Brian's mind; but this was done for his own purposes. He thought that Brian's love for Elizabeth Murray might prove a useful weapon in the struggle between Dino's sense of his rights and the romantic affection that he entertained for the man who had taken his place in the world--an affection which Hugo understood so little and despised so much, that he fancied himself sure of an easy victory over Dino's resolution to fight for his rightful position. It was greatly to his surprise that he found so keen a sense of justice and resentment at the little trust that Brian had reposed in him present in Dino's mind: the young man had been irritatingly firm in his determination to possess the Strathleckie estate; he knew precisely what he wanted, and what he meant to do. And although he was inclined to be generous to Brian and to Miss Murray, there seemed no reason to expect that he would be equally generous to Hugo. Therefore Hugo had felt himself obliged to use what he called "strong measures." He did not like strong measures. They were disagreeable to him. But they were less disagreeable than the thought of being poor. Hugo made little account of human life and human suffering so long as the suffering did not actually touch himself. He seemed to be born with as little heart as a beast of prey, which strikes when it is angry, or when it wants food, with no remorse and no regret. "A disagreeable necessity," Hugo called his evil deed, but he considered that the law of self-preservation justified him in what he did. And Brian Luttrell? What reason was it that made him fling prudence to the winds, and follow the Herons to the neighbourhood of a place where he had resolved never to show his face again? There was one great, overmastering reason--so great that it made him attempt what was well-nigh impossible. His love for Elizabeth Murray had taken full possession of him: he dreamed of her, he worshipped the very ground she trod upon; he would have sacrificed life itself for the chance of a gentle word from her. Life, but not honour. Much as he loved her, he would have fled to the very ends of the earth if he had known, if he had for one moment suspected, that she was the Miss Murray who owned the landed estate which once went with the house and grounds of Netherglen.