He stepped forward—a handsome, smiling gentleman of middle age, his face ivory-white, his white hair held by a black ribbon, his dress as precise as Mr. Bradbury’s, but set off by his shapely body. He wore no jewel; he had no touch of colour on him, save the red line of his lips and the cold blue of his eyes. He bowed with a courtly grace to Mr. Bradbury; he vouchsafed me the merest lift of his brows.

Mr. Bradbury met him with an equal composure. “It’s as well that you came here, Mr. Charles,” he said. “You formed the subject of our conversation.”

“Indeed,” he answered, indifferently, and, pulling forward a chair, he seated himself beside his father. “I am happy to believe, sir, that you’re prepared to speak of me as freely in my presence as in my absence.”

“I am to take this as your permission, Charles?” asked Mr. Bradbury, smoothly.

“Why not?” my uncle asked, smiling.

“Well, then, I have introduced this young gentleman to your father as your brother’s son, John Craike. I have already informed your father of the steps you took to prevent his arrival at Craike House.”

“My sole concern,” said the gentleman, carelessly, “is that I failed.”

“You admit your culpability?” asked Mr. Bradbury, meeting him with an equal composure.

“Culpability! Pray, your snuff-box, Bradbury—I haven’t mine by me. Thank you!” leaning forward and taking a pinch. “I admit no culpability, my dear Bradbury.”

“It is, to be sure, merely a question of phrase,” Mr. Bradbury conceded, drily. “It is enough for me that you failed. Admitting this, then, do you admit equally your responsibility for your brother’s disappearance from England?”

I saw my grandfather lean forward in his chair, his hands now gripping the ebony stick; the movement was not lost upon my uncle.

He answered swiftly, “That, Bradbury, I deny wholly. You are well aware of my affection for my brother, and my natural grief at his disappearance.”

“Well aware,” said Mr. Bradbury, with some show of anger. “And well aware, Charles, that if you were responsible, you would not dare to admit this before your father, knowing his actual affection for your brother as for no other being. Yet you admit before him your culpability—your guilt—in regard to this young gentleman—your brother’s son. Understanding that Mr. Edward Craike here takes a—shall I say tolerant?—view of many things that others,—I,—that the law of England regard as crimes, Charles Craike—as crimes punishable with the utmost rigour.”

“Really, Bradbury, you grow prosy,” Mr. Charles protested.

“You impose upon our friendship, Bradbury,” the old man muttered.

“Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, “would you have me make-believe to you of all men? Your son attempts to put away his brother’s son. He admits his guilt coolly—with effrontery, and you say nothing! I expected you to say nothing. But by his denial of his responsibility for the disappearance of Richard Craike from England, Charles here proves this to me—his realisation of your love for his brother, and the certainty of your righteous anger and his punishment, if it could be proved against him.”

“Bradbury! Bradbury!” Charles Craike murmured, smiling; but for the first time I saw a show of colour in his face, and a tightening of his lips.“The lad,” persisted Mr. Bradbury, “is Richard’s son. Legitimate! Be silent, Charles”—as the gentleman, with a bitter exclamation, started from his chair. “Don’t think that I, of all men, would come here, present this lad to Mr. Craike as his grandson, unless I were in possession of irrefutable proofs—that Richard Craike was married to Mary Howe, and that the boy is the child of that marriage. Nor would I have brought him to this house, but that I realise, as fully as I understand aught of Mr. Craike—that the best of Mr. Craike—his natural affection—was given wholly to his elder son.”

Mr. Bradbury leaned forward, eyeing the pair keenly. Charles Craike, impassive now, sat back in his chair; the old man had lowered his eyes, and now it seemed at last was moved and trembling; the ebony stick in his grasp clattered upon the hearth.

“I hoped,” said Mr. Bradbury, “to offer my client a little happiness in his last days. If I could not give him back his son, at least I could give him his grandson—look for look, colour for colour—the image of his son.”

Now my grandfather’s eyes burned suddenly upon me; now he leaned forward in his chair; colouring and confused, I sat staring at him in turn. He muttered then, “Bradbury—these proofs!”“The proofs are in our possession, sir. Necessarily, I could not bring them to this house.”

“Ay, but proofs, proofs—your bare word.”

“Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, disdainfully, “when have you ever had occasion before to question my probity?”

My grandfather was silent; again his eyes were cast down; the ebony stick in his grasp did not cease to clatter on the hearth. Charles Craike sat silent. Mr. Bradbury, snapping his snuff-box, rose from his chair.

“That is all I have to say to you, Mr. Craike,” he said, quietly. “I beg you to give this matter your earnest consideration, realising that at least the boy is the heir of Craike House, and realising that it is in your power to enrich him from your private fortunes as surely, sir, you would have enriched your son.”

I wondered at the composure of my Uncle Charles. He had risen with Mr. Bradbury, and now stood leaning against the chimney-piece, his face revealing nothing of the rage which surely racked him.

“I beg to take my leave of you, Mr. Craike,” said Mr. Bradbury, bowing to my grandfather. “Come, lad!”

But as I started up, glad enough to be away, the old man’s cane smote heavily upon the hearth. “The lad,” he growled, “stays here, Bradbury!”

“Mr. Craike, were you alone in this house,” said Mr. Bradbury, swiftly, “nothing could give me keener pleasure than that your grandson should remain with you. But Craike House is Craike House, and the lad goes with me.”

“He stays here!” cried the old man, with sudden stormy anger. “Damn you, Bradbury, he stays here!”

“Mr. Craike, I am answerable for the lad’s safety.”

“Really, Bradbury, really!” Charles deprecated.

“The lad will come to no hurt in this house,” the old man said, and his eyes blazed suddenly at Charles. “You hear me, Charles? No hurt shall come to him! If hurt come to him,—if, in defiance of me you seek to injure him, and separate my son’s son from me, as they took my son from me,—look to it, Bradbury, that no concern for me, and no desire further to keep the secrets of this house, shall stand between my grandson’s enemies and justice! Justice, Bradbury! The boy stays here. You remain to dine with me, Bradbury. There are affairs.”

Smiling triumphantly, Mr. Bradbury bowed.“I am honoured, Mr. Craike,” he said; and with a flourish, offered his snuff-box to my Uncle Charles, who accepted a pinch, maintaining an ineffable composure.