Mr. Musgrave had risen up to receive him; he had not failed in any of his faculties. He could still hear as well as he did twenty years before, and Lord Stanton’s name was unusual enough to call his attention for the moment. He had raised himself from his chair, and stood leaning forward, supporting himself with both hands upon the writing-table before him. This had been a favourite attitude, when he had no occasion for support; but now the feeble hands leaned heavily with all the weight of his frame upon them. He said the name that had been announced to him with a wavering of suspicion in his tone, “Lord Stanton!” then pointed with a tremulous sweep of his hand to a seat, and himself dropped back into his chair. He was not the stern old chief whom Geoff expected to find in arms against every suggestion of mercy, but a feeble old man, smiling faintly, with a kind of veiled intelligence in his eyes. He murmured something about “an unusual pleasure,” which Geoff could not make out. “I have come to you, sir, about important business. I hope you will not think I am taking too much upon myself. I thought, as I was--the chief person on one side, and you on the other, that you might allow me to speak?” Geoff was as nervous as a child; his colour went and came. It awed him, he could scarcely tell why, to see the feebleness of the old figure, the dreary, abstracted look in the old face. “Surely--surely,” said the old man. “Why should you not speak to me? Our family is perhaps better known; but yours, Mr.--I mean, my Lord Stanton, yours is--” He half forgot what he was saying, getting slower and slower, and now stopped all at once. Then, after a moment, rousing himself, resumed, with a wave of his hand, “Surely--you must say--what you have to say.” This was worse for Geoff than if he had forbidden him altogether. What could he do to rouse interest in the old man’s breast? “I want to speak, sir,” he said, faltering, “of your son.” “My son?--ah! yes, Randolph is here. He is too old for me--too old--not like a son. What does it matter who is your father when it comes to that age?” “It was not Randolph, sir. I did not know him; but it is your other son--your eldest son, I mean--John.” “Eh?” The old man roused up a little. “John--that was my little brother; we called him Johnny--a delightful boy. There is just such another in the house now, I believe. I think he is in the house.” “Oh, sir!” said Geoff, “I want to speak to you--to plead with you for some one who is not in the house--for your son John--John who has been so long away. You know--don’t you know whom I mean?--your eldest son, Mr. Musgrave--_John_, who left us and left everything so many years ago.” A wavering light came over the old man’s face. He opened his eyes wide and gazed at Geoff, who, for his part, was too much troubled and alarmed to know what to do.