‘But to return to the matter in hand,’ I resumed; ‘what can there be so dangerous in the few facts I have just come to the knowledge of, that my uncle should have cared to conceal them from me? That a man born in humble circumstances should come to know that he had distinguished ancestors, could hardly so fill him with false notions as to endanger his relation to the laws of his existence.’ ‘Of course--but you are too hasty. Those facts are of more importance than you are aware--involve other facts. Moldwarp Hall is _your_ property, and not Sir Giles Brotherton’s.’ ‘Then the apple was my own, after all!’ I said to myself exultingly. It was a strange fantastic birth of conscience and memory--forgotten the same moment, and followed by an electric flash--not of hope, not of delight, not of pride, but of pure revenge. My whole frame quivered with the shock; yet for a moment I seemed to have the strength of a Hercules. In front of me was a stile through a high hedge: I turned Lilith’s head to the hedge, struck my spurs into her, and over or through it, I know not which, she bounded. Already, with all the strength of will I could summon, I struggled to rid myself of the wicked feeling; and although I cannot pretend to have succeeded for long after, yet by the time Mr Coningham had popped over the stile, I was waiting for him, to all appearance, I believe, perfectly calm. He, on the other hand, from whatever cause, was actually trembling. His face was pale, and his eye flashing. Was it that he had roused me more effectually than he had hoped? ‘Take care, take care, my boy,’ he said, ‘or you won’t live to enjoy your own. Permit me the honour of shaking hands with Sir Wilfrid Cumbermede Daryll.’ After this ceremonial of prophetic investiture, we jogged away quietly, and he told me a long story about the death of the last proprietor, the degree in which Sir Giles was related to him, and his undisputed accession to the property. At that time, he said, my father was in very bad health, and indeed died within six months of it. ‘I knew your father well, Mr Cumbermede,’ he went on, ‘--one of the best of men, with more spirit, more ambition than your uncle. It was _his_ wish that his child, if a boy, should be called Wilfrid,--for though they had been married five or six years, their only child was born after his death. Your uncle did not like the name, your mother told me, but made no objection to it. So you were named after your grandfather, and great-grandfather, and I don’t know how many of the race besides.--When the last of the Darylls died--’ ‘Then,’ I interrupted, ‘my father was the heir.’ ‘No; you mistake: your uncle was the elder--Sir David Cumbermede Daryll, of Moldwarp Hall and The Moat,’ said Mr Coningham, evidently bent on making the most of my rights. ‘He never even told me he was the eldest,’ I said. ‘I always thought, from his coming home to manage the farm when my father was ill, that he was the second of the two sons.’