John Haveril was a man of few words, and these came slowly; but of ready action. He followed the course of the inquiry, with doubt at first, but, as one point after another came to light, he began to be interested; when the child's clothes were brought home, he had no more doubt on this point: he became impatient. Why should there be any more hesitation? If the lady persisted in her denial, why not go straight to the young man and lead him to his mother? As for what might follow after that, if he thought about it at all, should be left to Providence. Therefore, bearing in mind the agitation and anxiety in which his wife was kept by these delays, he resolved upon independent action of his own. And that was the reason why he took his hands out of his pockets and left the room.

Humphrey Woodroffe sat in his study, getting through the hour before dinner with the help of a French novel. The field of human interest occupied by the kind of French novel which he and his friends chiefly studied, is so limited that one is surprised that its readers never seem to tire of it or to ask for more. The study—which was behind the dining-room—was furnished by himself, and was an excellent example of the day's taste. In the higher Æsthetic circles, the members of which are very limited in number, the first and most important rule is that true Art, and with it, of course, the highest expression of Art, changes from year to year; what was last year the one and eternal treatment, is now Philistine and contemptible. His piano was littered with music—mostly in MSS.—his own; weird and wonderful daubs of colour hung upon the walls—they were the pictures of the New School—they called themselves the New School—the school of to-day, of whom he was one. His table was covered with books bound in dainty white and gold, or grey and gold: they were chiefly books of poets—old poets—forgotten poets, who sang of love; it has been reserved for our age to disinter them, and to go into raptures over their magnificent and fearless realism. Poetry, like painting, music, furniture, and wall-paper, changes its fashions for the young every year.

In a word, the study was a temple. For such a temple her worshippers must all be young—under seven and twenty. It is sad to think that they will one day become old—old—old—thirty years old, and that new poets will write, new musicians compose, new painters paint, for younger Æsthetes. Sad to reflect that they will then be passÉs, their utterances Bohemian, their views contemptible, their standards ignoble.

John Haveril advanced into this shrine of the Æsthetic muse with more of his later than of his earlier manner. The gardener was, perhaps, below the man of consideration.

"Mr. John Haveril?" Humphrey read the name from the card as if he had never heard it before, and received him with the studied chill which most effectually keeps off the outsider. "I met you, I believe, at Sir Robert Steele's?"

"Yes; I was there."

He looked about for a chair that would bear his weight. There was one which seemed equal to the task. He sat down without being invited. Humphrey remained standing, with his most repellent manner.

"I was there, young man; I was there," John Haveril repeated. "We had not much conversation; but I presume if you do meet a man once, and you have something to say to that man, you may call upon him."

"Surely. Though what Mr. Haveril, the man of millions—is it twenty millions?—and more?—I hope much more—can have to say to me, I cannot guess. Briefly, sir, I have no money; I never speculate; and I can take none of your shares."

John Haveril opened his mouth twice. Then he shook his head. "Best not to meet bad manners with worse," he replied, with dignity quite in his best manner. "I understand, young man, that you mean some kind of sneer which, let me tell you, sir, ill becomes your youth in the presence of my age."

Sir Humphrey leaned his elbow on the mantel-shelf, and adjusted his pince-nez with his unoccupied hand. This took time. In fact, he was thinking of a repartee. When the operation was finished, he turned to his visitor a face of deliberate insolence.

"You came to teach me something beside manners, I believe. Not, I am sure, that one could desire, even in manners, a more competent instructor."

"I did. Perhaps it may be worth your while to listen. Perhaps not. If it is, you may take your elbow off the shelf, and try not to look as if you were gazing at a chipmunk in a cage. Understand, sir that I will receive neither your pity nor your contempt. If you do not change your manner, I will show you, by a highly practical method, that you have made a mistake."

There was something in the man's eyes which compelled obedience. Besides, although he was forty years older than the other, there was a toughness about his build which might be formidable.

Humphrey instantly changed both his look and his attitude, and took a chair.

"You may go on," he said sulkily, "as soon as you please."

"When I heard about you, sir, in connection with the little transaction we know of, I began to inquire secretly whether we were wise to go on. 'If he turns out unworthy,' I said, 'we'd better stop where we are, and take no further steps in the matter.'"

"I shall probably understand as we go along," said Humphrey. "At present——"

"You will understand, presently. I can't say, sir, that the character I have obtained of you is encouraging."

"Kind, however, of people to give one a character at all." He threw back his head into his hands, and stretched out his legs, and looked up into the ceiling.

"I don't understand," John Haveril replied, "the talk that says one thing and means another. I like plain and straightforward things. However, I hear of you that you gamble and drink, and that you run after dancing-girls; and that you believe, like many young Englishmen of fortune, that you belong to a separate caste, and not to the world, like common people."

"Unfortunately, Mr. Haveril, we have to belong to the world. I assure you that I would much rather not."

"You've got to. However, we did go on; I have not told the person chiefly interested all I'd heard about you, nor the half. We've now brought our business to an end. That is, we've proved up to the hilt what was at first only a suspicion."

"Again, I dare say I shall understand you presently."

"The question is, whether you know the secret. 'If,' I said, 'he does know the secret, and still carries on the pretence, the chap isn't worthy of our notice. Let's wipe our feet on him, and go on our way.'"

"Wipe—your—feet? You like plain and straightforward things, Mr. Haveril. Surely it is a poetical and an imaginative case—'wipe your feet'—upon—a—'chap.'"

"'If he carries on the pretence in ignorance,' I said, 'let us tell him, and see how he takes it. If he takes it worthily, we shall know what to think of him.'"

"To think of him?" murmured Humphrey.

"Yes. Well, the time has come for you to learn the truth, if you don't know the truth already."

Humphrey smiled. "I really cannot read that riddle. No; I do not know the truth. Whether I shall take it worthily, as you say, or whether I shall receive the wiping of muddy feet, I cannot foretell."

"You don't know? Well, I don't think it's my business to tell you. Very likely some one will tell you. Meantime, the person principally concerned does know it, and you will understand, when you do learn the truth, how much it has unsettled her. Also Dick knows it."

"Who is Dick? Fiddler Dick? Dick the Tramp? Dick who goes out in white-thread gloves, like a waiter?"

"And Molly knows it. And I know it. Very well. Now, I want you to remember very carefully what I say. If you don't understand these words now, you will later on. First of all, whatever happens, you are no relation of mine."

"Thank you! thank you!" Humphrey changed his position, sat up, and clasped his hands. "Thank you, so much! I began to fear, Mr. Haveril, that you must be a long-lost uncle."

"And no claim can be set up on me. You are not my son, but hers."

"That is at least true. I am hers. And I certainly am not yours. This grows exciting."

"Hers, I say, not mine."

Humphrey jumped in his chair. "How the devil, man, can I be your son? What drivel is this?"

John Haveril paid no attention to this question. He was putting his own case in his own words.

"And not being my son, there's no claim," he went on slowly. "But, young man, as the thing has to come out, you will have to behave according."

"'Behave according'? Come, Mr. Haveril, I have given you a patient hearing. Pray, what do you mean by 'behave according'? But please—please tell me what you mean, or go away." He spread his hands helplessly. "I wish some one would come," he murmured, "and carry off this person."

"When you learn the truth, remember what I say now. I don't like you, nor the looks of you, nor the language of you, nor the ways of you. But there you are, and I'm bound to do something for you. Now, sir, make your mother happy; do what she wants, make her love you. And, well, your sort, I take it, is always wanting money; you never make any, and you are always spending. Make her happy, and you shall have as much as any young man can want in reason or out of reason. I know your manner of life, sir, and it's an expensive manner of life. You are in debt again; Lady Woodroffe has already paid your debts once or twice; champagne and cards and painted Jezebels—you shall have them all—all; I don't care what you want, you shall have everything, if you only behave properly to your mother."

Humphrey heard these words with real and breathless astonishment. There had been, it is true, many expostulations from his mother about extravagance and scandals; but could she have complained to this rough, coarse creature?

"I cannot for the life of me understand what you mean."

"Remember what I say, then."

"Mr. Haveril"—for once the young man spoke quite plainly and unaffectedly—"I assure you, although you assume that I know what you mean—I do not in the least. Can you explain why you take such an interest in my relations with my mother, not to speak of my personal character?"

"No, sir. You will understand, very well, in a day or two. Let me conclude, sir. I intended to explain that I married late in life."

"Oh!" Humphrey groaned. "It is like a bad dream. What does it matter to me whether you married late in life or early? Man alive! Will you take a drink—two drinks—to go? There's whisky in the cabinet."

"I say," John Haveril repeated slowly, "that I married late in life. Over forty I was; therefore I've had but small experience of women. But of your mother I must say she's the very best woman that lives—the very best."

Humphrey gasped. "Good Lord!" he cried.

"The best and the tenderest and the most pious."

"Oh! The most pious!"

"And the most beautiful. Pity that she keeps fretting about you."

"Well, it is a pity. Do you mean to say that she sent you—you—you—to tell me—me—me that?"

"Otherwise, naturally a happy nature, full of sunshine, and well-mannered."

Humphrey laughed aloud. "Well, she is well-mannered. That's a good shot."

"And speaks like a lady."

"Yes, yes; she certainly does."

"Well, then"—John Haveril rose—"I believe I've said all I came to say."

"I'm glad of that. Perhaps you'd like to say it all over again. You have told me my character; you have assured me that I am not your son; you have offered me millions if I behave properly; and you have been so good as to praise my mother warmly."

"I've said, I think, all I came to say," he repeated, in his slow manner. "Don't tell your mother—when you know the truth—what I said, nor why I came here. Best for her to believe that you behave, as you are going to behave, out of your own good heart—you can pretend a bit, I suppose, without any thought of the dollars. And when you get those dollars, you can say to yourself, young man, that you wouldn't have had them if it hadn't been for your mother."

With these words John Haveril offered his hand. Humphrey looked straight through him, taking no notice of the proffered salute.

"I was once in the service of an English gentleman," he said—"in his garden. But for that I should believe that the English aristocracy was more unmannerly than any New Mexican cowboy. Sir, to use what I understand is your favourite expression where manners are concerned, you are yourself nothing better than a cad and an outsider. But do not tell your mother, when you know the truth, that I said so. Let it be a secret between ourselves that I have found you to be a cad—an unmannerly cad."

He then departed with dignity.

Humphrey looked after him with surprise rather than anger. To be called an outsider by a beast of a self-made Dives who had formerly been a gardener! It was astonishing; it was a new experience; it was ludicrous.

He ran upstairs to the drawing-room, where his mother was alone, writing.

"If I may interrupt," he said. "Thank you. One moment. Mother, I've had a most remarkable visit."

"Who is your visitor?"

"I wonder why they ever invented America," he said. "I wonder why we tolerate Americans—rich Americans—who have been English mechanics. Why do we admit them into our houses?"

"It is a mistake. But it is useless to protest. Why do you ask?"

"My visitor was a man who came last from America, where he has made a great fortune—robbed the people by the thousand, I suppose—a man named Haveril."

"Haveril!"

"I met the man the other night at Sir Robert Steele's."

"Vulgar, of course."

"Not so vulgar as ignorant—say, common. He told me he was a gardener's boy originally. Seemed to think it was a meritorious thing."

"It is the mock-humility of the purse-proud. But what did he want with you?"

"He is mighty mysterious about some secret which is going to be sprung upon me. It is now, he said, completely discovered."

"'Completely discovered,' you said, my son?"

"And I am to be told in a day or two. After which, everything depends upon my behaviour."

"Oh! Of what nature is the wonderful secret?"

"I don't know. Then he went on with a rigmarole about my being no relation of his—as if such a thing were possible! And he promises a mountain of dollars if I obey the wishes of my mother. Have you any special wishes, mother?"

"None—except those which you already know, and do not respect."

"I live as other men in my position are expected to live."

"Go on about your mysterious visitor."

"He began to talk about you, mother. Spoke of your good manners. I ought to have knocked him down for his impudence."

"Did he reveal his secret?"

"No. He gave me a warning—as I told you—and he went away."

Lady Woodroffe looked up, with a perfectly calm face.

"I believe I could tell you something about his secret." Truth was stamped plainly on that marble brow, with all the other virtues which belong to the grande dame de par le monde. "The woman Haveril is, I believe, crazed. The man is a fool, except in making money, where he is, I dare say, a knave. They are aided and abetted by a man of your name, a Richard Woodroffe, who is clearly making money by the conspiracy—and a girl they call Molly Something."

"What? Is Molly in it?"

"Pray, are you concerned with that person as well as——?"

"She is a protÉgÉe of Hilarie. It was there I met her. As for the fellow, Richard Woodroffe, he is just a horrid little cad."

"Well. That will do. You need not worry yourself about it, Humphrey. I am busy now." She turned to her work, having been interrupted in an essay on the treatment of hardened sinners, considered in connection, I believe, with the case of Jane Cakebread.