"What does he say?" asked Gore, warming his hand and casting a look over his shoulder. "He says nothing, because he thinks you are drown-dead, as Mr. Peggotty would say. And, by Jove! Bernard, I thought you really were dead. You have no idea what a relief it was when I got your letter. How did you escape?" Bernard passed his hand through his hair and sighed wearily. The strain through which he had passed, and from which he still suffered, showed itself in his bloodless cheeks and his wild eyes. At every sound he started and shook. His nerves, and small wonder, were quite unstrung, and even while sitting safely beside his old school chum on the sofa near the fire, he kept a tight hold of him, like a child by its mother's knee. Seeing this, Conniston rose quickly. Bernard was on his feet in a moment, startled by the suddenness of the movement. "What's the matter?" he demanded, looking anxiously around, and eyeing both door and window suspiciously. "You are the matter," said Conniston, touching the bell. "I must get you some wine. You look so awfully ill, old chap. This will never do. I tell you, Bernard, you are all right. I'll stick to you through thick and thin." "But if I was arrested?" "You won't be arrested. Everyone thinks you are dead. You'll stay here until we sift this matter to the bottom, and then you can take your place again in the world as Sir Bernard Gore." "Sir Bernard!" "Of course. You inherit the title and the money also." "Not the money, Dick?" "Yes! Durham told me to tell you, as he couldn't come himself. He is now reading the will and Beryl will find himself left out in the cold. You get everything." Bernard threw up his hands. "And I'm a hunted fugitive." "Steady, old boy. Bite on the bullet. You're a dead man, and will remain one until we discover who killed your grandfather." "And how can we----" "Shut up, Bernard!" Conniston made an imperative sign as a knock came to the door. Gore at once turned his face to the fire and began to arrange the logs, while Lord Conniston spoke to a sharp, dark, wizen child who entered the room. She was no more than fifteen, but had such an old face and such a womanly appearance that she looked much older. Her eyes were as black as sloes and her thin lips tightly closed. A most unpleasant-looking creature with a waspish nature. "Oh, Victoria," said Conniston, as this goblin dropped a curtsey, "I want you to bring up some port wine.--Mrs. Moon will give it to you--and some glasses also." "Yes, m'lord!" "Bring a plate of biscuits too." "Yes, m'lord!" "And, Victoria," said the young man, as she retreated, "there is no need for you to mention that I have visitors at the castle."