"Well, as I am a stranger to her, she cannot wish to see me on any personal matter, sir. And as you mention that you have not seen her for five-and-twenty years, about which time my parents died, I naturally thought----" "That I had some object in asking you not to see her?" "Well, yes." "You are a man of experience now, Claude," said Hilliston, with apparent irrelevance, "and have been all over the world. Consequently you know that life is full of--trouble." "I believe so; but hitherto no trouble has come my way." "You might expect that it would come sooner or later, Claude. It has come now." "Indeed!" said Larcher, in a joking tone. "Am I about to lose my small income of five hundred a year?" "No, that is safe enough!" answered Hilliston abruptly, rising to his feet. "The trouble of which I speak will not affect your material welfare. Indeed, if you are a hardened man of the world, as you might be, it need affect you very little in any case. You are not responsible for the sins of a former generation, and as you hardly remember your parents, cannot have any sympathy with their worries." "I certainly remember very little of my parents, sir," said Larcher, moved by the significance of this speech. "Yet I have a faint memory of two faces. One a dark, handsome face, with kind eyes, the other a beautiful, fair countenance." "Your father and mother, Claude." "Yes. So much I remember of them. But what have they to do with Margaret Bezel--or Mrs. Bezel, as I suppose she is called? Why does she want to see me?" "To tell you a story which I prefer to relate myself." "About whom?" "About your parents." "But they are dead!" "Yes," said Hilliston, "they are dead." He walked about the room, opened a box, and took out a roll of papers, yellow with age. These were neatly tied up with red tape and inscribed "The Larcher Affair." Placing them on the table before him, Hilliston resumed his seat, and looked steadfastly at his ward. Claude, vaguely aware that some unpleasant communication was about to be made to him, sat silently waiting the words of ill omen, and his naturally fresh color faded to a dull white with apprehension. "I have always loved you like a son, Claude," said Hilliston solemnly, "ever since you came to my house, a tiny boy of five. It has been my aim to educate you well, to advance your interests, to make you happy, and above all," added the lawyer, lowering his voice, "to keep the contents of these papers secret from you." Claude said nothing, though Hilliston paused to enable him to speak, but sat waiting further explanation. "I thought the past was dead and buried," resumed his guardian, in a low voice. "So far as I can see it is foolish to rake up old scandals--old crimes." "Crimes!" said Claude, rising involuntarily to his feet.