At two o’clock, just after Thorpe had breakfasted, Mr. Randolph’s card was brought to him, and he went at once into the general sitting-room. No one but Mr. Randolph occupied it at the moment. He was sitting listlessly on the edge of a chair, staring out of the window. Commonly the triggest of men, his face to-day was unshaven, and he looked as if he had not been out of his clothes for forty-eight hours. And he looked as if he had been picked up in the arms of Time, and flung across the unseen gulf into the greyness and feebleness of age.

As he rose mechanically, Thorpe took his hand in a strong clasp, forgetting himself for the moment.

Mr. Randolph did not return the pressure. He withdrew his hand hurriedly, and sat down.

“An explanation is due you,” he said, and even his voice was changed. “You have stumbled upon an unhappy family secret.”

Thorpe explained how he had come to enter the house.

“I supposed that it was something of the sort, or rather Cochrane did; he found the window and lower door open. It was a kind and friendly act. I appreciate the motive.” He paused a moment, then went on, “As I said just now, an explanation is due you, if explanation is necessary. As you know, I had recognised that as Nina’s right—to speak when she saw fit. That is the reason I did not explain the other day—I usually manage to have her in the country at such times,” he added, irrelevantly.

“Such attacks are always more or less unexpected, I suppose.” Thorpe hardly knew what to say.

Mr. Randolph fumbled at his hat, “More or less.”

“Were any other members of her family—similarly afflicted?”

“Her father and mother were well-conducted people. I know nothing of any further antecedents.”

“It sometimes skips a generation,” said Thorpe, musingly.

Mr. Randolph brought his hand close above his eyes, and pressed his lips together. He opened his mouth twice, as if to speak, before he articulated, “Sometimes, not always.”

Thorpe rose abruptly and walked to the window, then returned, and stood before Mr. Randolph.

“And Nina?” he demanded, peremptorily. “What of her?”

Mr. Randolph pressed his hand convulsively against his face.

Thorpe turned white; his knees shook. He went out and returned with some brandy. “Here,” he said. “Let us drink this and brace up and have it out. We are not children.”

Mr. Randolph drank the brandy. Then he replied, “She is on the way. In a few years she will be as you saw her mother last night; no power on earth can save her. I would give my wretched failure of a life, I would burn at the stake—but I can do nothing.”

“Perhaps I can. I intend to marry her.”

“No! No! She, who is stronger than I, would never have permitted it. She told me that this morning. For the matter of that I am her ambassador to-day. She charged me to make it clear to you that she expected you to stand by your part of the compact. She is immovable; I know her.”

“Tell her that I will take no messages at second hand, not even from you. Unless she sees and comes to an understanding with me, I shall consider myself engaged to her, and shall announce it.”

“Do you mean to say that you would marry her, knowing what you do?”

“I would rather I had known it when I first came. I should have avoided her, or left the place. But I gave her my word, voluntarily, that nothing, no matter what, should interfere with my determination to marry her, and nothing shall.”

“You are an Englishman!” said Mr. Randolph, bitterly. “I wish I were as good a one; but I am not. My record is clean enough, I suppose; but I am a weak man in some respects, and I started out all wrong. I wish to God that everything were straight, Thorpe; I would rather you married her than any man I have ever known.”

“Thank you. Will you arrange an interview for me?”

Mr. Randolph fidgeted, “I tell you what I think, Thorpe; you had better wait a little. She is in no mood to listen to reason, nor for love-making—take my word for that. I have never seen her in so black a mood. But women are naturally buoyant, and she particularly so. Go and take your trip through the State. Let it last—say two months, and then appear unexpectedly at Redwoods. I do not give you any encouragement,—in all conscience you ought not to want any; but I think that under the circumstances I suggest your final interview will at least not be an unpleasant one. Nina lives an out of door life there and is with the other girls most of the time.”

“Very well. I don’t know but that I prefer it that way. Meanwhile, will you tell her all that I have said?—except that I would rather I had known it sooner.”

Mr. Randolph rose and gathered up his hat and gloves. “I will tell her,” he said. “Good-bye. You are badly broken up, but you may be thankful that you are in your shoes, not mine.”