In obedience to Miss Falconer's command, Howard presented himself at Clarendon House at a comparatively early hour that evening. There were some guests staying in the house, amongst them Lady Clansford, who was still obliging enough to play the part of presiding genius; but they were all resting, or dressing for the ball, and the drawing-room, into which a couple of superbly liveried footmen showed Howard, was empty. But presently he heard the frou-frou of satin, and Maude Falconer swept in; her beauty, the splendour of her dress, the flashing of the diamonds in her hair and on her neck and arms, her queenly presence, almost made Howard catch his breath.

She came in with a languid grace, the air of hauteur which suited her so well, but as she saw that Howard was alone, the languor and the hauteur almost disappeared, and she came forward and gave him her hand, and he saw a look on her face which reminded him of that upon the ill-fated Italian, though it did not resemble it. For the first time he noticed a shade of anxiety on the level brow, something like a pathetic curve in the perfectly moulded lips; and he fancied that the gloved hand, which he held for a moment, quivered.

"Is Stafford not with you?" she asked. "I thought he was coming early.
His father expected him."

"No, I came alone," replied Howard. "But, no doubt, Stafford will be here presently."

She stood, calm and statuesque, but with her eyes downcast for a moment, then she raised them and looked at him. "About this cotillon," she said; then she broke off: "Do you know what is going to happen to-night? It is a secret, but—but I feel as if I must tell you, though I am betraying Sir Stephen's confidence. He tells me everything—more than he tells even Stafford. Strange as it may seem, he—he is fond of me."

"That does not seem strange to me," said Howard, with a little bow.

She made a slight gesture of impatience.

"It seems strange to me," she said, with a touch of bitterness. "So few persons are fond of me."

Howard smiled.

"For once I must be guilty of contradicting a lady," he said. "When I reflect that to-night I shall form one of a band of devoted courtiers who will throng round you in the hopeless pangs of despair—"

She repeated the gesture of impatience.

"Have you seen Stafford to-day?" she asked, looking down.

"I saw him a few hours ago," he replied, "at his rooms."

"At his rooms," she repeated, with a slight frown and a quick glance at him. "He promised to come to Richmond. Why did he not do so? Is he—ill?"

"Ill?" said Howard, raising his brows and smiling, for he knew the meaning of loyalty to a friend. "I never saw him in better spirits in my life, he was quite hilarious."

Her eyes flashed upon him keenly, but he met them with his slow, cynical smile.

"He must have been very different to what he usually is," she said. "I have not seen him laugh since—since we left Bryndermere." Her lips came tightly together, and she looked at him and then away from him. "Mr. Howard, you are his friend, his closest friend. I want you to tell me—But, no; you would not speak if you were on the rack, would you? No one sees, no one speaks; it is only I who, always watching him, see that there is something wrong. And I—I am so helpless!"

The outburst was so unlike her, the dropping of the mask of pride and self-possession was so sudden that Howard was startled; but no sign of his emotion revealed itself upon his placid face, upon which his serene smile did not waver for an instant.

"I think you are availing yourself of a lady's privilege and indulging in a fancy, Miss Falconer," he said. "Stafford is perfectly well, and, of course, is perfectly happy—how could he be otherwise?" He bent his head slightly. "Perhaps he may be a little tired. Alas! we are not all endowed with the splendid energy which the gods have bestowed on you and Sir Stephen; and the heat is enough to take the backbone out of anyone less gifted."

She checked a sigh, as if she understood that it was useless to appeal to him, and after a pause Howard said:

"You haven't told me the great secret yet."

She seemed to wake from a reverie, and said, listlessly:

"It will not be a secret for many hours. Sir Stephen is expecting the peerage to-night. The official intimation should have reached him by midday; but the prime minister did not return to London till this afternoon and the formalities were not completed. I think it will be announced to-night."

Her eyes shone and a spot of colour started to her cheeks.

"You are glad?" Howard said, with a smile of sympathy that had something of mockery in it, for your worldly cynic is always amused by worldliness in others.

"Yes, I am glad; but not for my own sake. You think I am pining for a coronet? I do not care—it is for Stafford's sake that I am glad. Nothing is too good for him, no title too high!"

"Do you think Stafford cares?" asked Howard.

She flushed and her eyes fell before his.

"No," she said, with a deep sigh. "I do not think he cares. He seems quite indifferent. All the time Sir Stephen and I have been working—"

"Have you been working?" said Howard, raising his eyebrows.

She laughed a little wearily.

"Indeed, yes. I have been—what do you men call it?—log-rolling for weeks. It is I who have found out what is wanted by the people who can help us. And it is generally, always, in fact, money. Always money! I get 'tips' from Sir Stephen and my father, and whisper them to the lords and ladies who have influence in the political drawing-rooms and clubs."

"And Sir Stephen?"

She laughed.

"His task is much simpler and easier than mine. He just goes down to his political club and subscribes so many thousand pounds towards the party expenses. The other night he gave them—but I must not tell the secrets of the Tories even to you, Mr. Howard. But it was a very large sum. It is always done that way, isn't it?"

"I suppose so," he assented. "It must be; for, come to think of it, a man isn't made a peer simply because he brews good beer; and a great many of our peers were and are good brewers, you see. Oh, it's all right, it pans out very satisfactorily, as the miners say. And so Stafford will be the future Earl of—"

"Earl of Highcliffe," she said. "He has declined anything less than an earldom. He has given so much. Sir Stephen owns some land there, and—and some of his people come from there."

Howard laughed.

"I see. Been there since they came over with the Conqueror. The
Herald's College will have no difficulty in finding a coat-of-arms.
Something with a Kaffir and a railway in it."

She smiled tolerantly.

"You always make fun of everything, Mr. Howard. If only Stafford would care—"

She sighed, and a moment afterwards her hand went to her lip with the gesture of a nervous school-girl. She had heard Stafford's voice in the hall.

He came in and greeted her gravely, and, Howard being present, merely took her hand.

"You two conspiring as usual?" he said, with a smile, with the smile which indicates a mind from which mirth has been absent for some time.

"Yes," said Howard; "we have been plotting the cotillon and very properly arranging that the prize shall go to the wisest, the nicest, and best-looking man in the room. I need not tell you his name?" He spread his hand on his heart, and bowed with mock complacency. "And now I will go and find Sir Stephen and get a cigarette before the battle begins. Au revoir."

When he had gone, almost before the door had closed on him, Maude moved closer to Stafford, and with a mixture of shyness and eagerness, put her arm round his neck.

"How good of you to come so early!" she murmured, in the voice which only a woman in love can use, and only when she is addressing the man she loves. "You did not come to Richmond? Never mind! Stafford, you know that I do not wish to hamper or bind you, do you not?—Are you well?" she broke off, scanning his face earnestly, anxiously. "Quite well," he responded. "Why do you ask, Maude?"

"I thought you looked tired, pale, that you have looked so for some weeks," she said, her eyes seeking his.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"I am quite well. The hot weather makes one feel rather limp, I suppose. At any rate, there is nothing else the matter with me but a fit of laziness."

"As if you were ever lazy!" she said, with a smile.

"There is a large party to-night?" he said, presently.

She nodded.

"Yes: immense. The biggest thing we—I mean Sir Stephen—has done." Her eyes fell for a moment. "You will dance with me to-night—twice, Stafford?"

"As many times as you like, of course," he said. "But I shall not get so many opportunities. You will be too much sought after, as usual."

She sighed.

"That is the one disadvantage of being engaged to you," she said.
"Twice, then. The second and the eleventh waltz."

He nodded, and stood with the same absent preoccupation in his eyes; and she drew a little closer to him still; and as her eyes dwelt on his face with love's hunger in them, she whispered:

"You have not kissed me yet, Stafford."

He bent and kissed her, and her lips clung to his in that most awful of appeals, the craving, the prayer from the soul that loves to the soul that refuses love in return.

"Ah, Stafford, if—if it were all over, and we were away in the country somewhere?"

"Why don't we go?" he asked, with absolute indifference to the social plots and schemes which were being woven round him.

She laughed.

"In a little while! Sir Stephen wants a change; he is looking rather fagged—"

"I'm not surprised!" said Stafford. "It seems to me that my father rests neither night nor day—"

"Ah, well, it will soon be over—perhaps before you expect," she said, smiling mysteriously. "Hush! Here he comes! You bad boy, you have spoilt my hair,"—she herself had disarranged it as she pressed against his breast. "I must run away and have it put straight."

Sir Stephen entered a moment after she had left the room. He looked fagged to-night, as she had said; but his face lit up at sight of Stafford.

"Ah, my boy!" he exclaimed, holding Stafford's hand for a moment or two and scanning him with his usual expression of pride and affection. "We are going to have a big night: the greatest crush we have had. Didn't I hear Maude's voice?"

Stafford said that she had just gone out. Sir Stephen nodded musingly, and glanced at Stafford's grave face.

"I suppose the hurly-burly will be over presently," he said, "and we can go down to the country. Where would you like to go?"

Stafford shrugged his shoulders, and Sir Stephen eyed him rather sadly and anxiously. This indifference of Stafford's was quite a new thing.

"Don't mind? What do you say to Brae Wood, then?"

Stafford's face flushed.

"Not there—Wouldn't it be rather hot at Bryndermere, sir? Why not
Scotland?"

Sir Stephen nodded.

"All right. Wherever you like, my boy. We've still got some years of the Glenfare place. We'll go there. And, Stafford—do you ever remember that I am getting old?"

Stafford laughed and looked at the handsome face affectionately and with the admiration and pride with which a son regards a good-looking father.

"Yes; I suppose you must be nearly thirty, sir!"

Sir Stephen laughed, not ill-pleased at the retort.

"Seriously, Staff, I'm older than you think, and—er—Ah, well, we're all mortal! Do you think you could oblige me in a little matter—"

He paused.

Stafford looked at him with a half smile.

"Sounds as if you wanted to borrow money, sir. Anything I can do—"

Sir Stephen laughed.

"No, I'm not in want of money: but I'm in want of a daughter-in-law, of grandchildren to sit upon my knee—" He laughed again, as if he were a little ashamed of the touch of sentiment. "Seriously, Staff, is there any reason for waiting? I know that the engagement is a short one; but, well why should you and Maude not be happy? I can make arrangements," he went on, eagerly. "There is Brae Wood. I'll make that over to you—"

Brae Wood again! Stafford's face grew set and impassive.

—"Or there is that place I bought in Warwickshire. But, there, perhaps you and Maude would like to find a place for yourselves. Very natural! Well, there's no difficulty! Come, Staff! Why delay! 'Gather ye rose-buds while ye may,' you know! Why shouldn't the marriage take place directly the House rises and we leave London?"

Stafford turned away so that his father might not see the sudden pallor of his face.

"I'll—I'll speak to Maude, sir," he said, trying to make his tone cheerful, if not enthusiastic.

Sir Stephen laid his hand upon Stafford's broad shoulder.

"Thank you, my boy!" he said. "You are always good to me! Always! God bless you, Staff!"

His voice was husky, there was a moisture in his eyes which almost made Stafford's grow dim; then, with a swift return to his usual alert and sanguine manner, Sir Stephen withdrew his hands and swung round.

"I must be off: Maude likes me to be in the room when the people come: and, by George! Staff, I find myself doing what she likes all the time!"

His laugh rang out as he hurried with his brisk step from the room.

He was there at his post, when the guests began to arrive; and not far from him stood Maude in the splendour of her beauty; not tremulous now, as Howard had seen her, but statuesque and calm, and gracious with a stately graciousness which was well suited to the coronet which all knew would some day glitter on the bronze-gold hair.

Every now and then as the crowd increased her eyes would wander in search of Stafford, and she noticed that though he took his part, did his duty, the listless, half-wearied expression was still on his face, and a pang shot through her. Was it possible that he was still thinking of that girl at Bryndermere—She thrust the thought, the sickening dread, from her and forced the conventional smile to her face.

She danced the first dance with a popular duke who stood high in the government, and a word or two he let drop: "Sir Stephen: a man worthy of the highest honors," made her heart beat with anticipatory triumph.

The second waltz came, and—Ah, well, with Stafford's arm round her, with her head almost pillowed on his shoulder she was happy, and her fears, her vague doubts and presentiments fell from her.

"Ah, that was good," she said, with a sigh. "Do not forget—the eleventh, dearest! Take me to the prince—he is over there."

She dropped her curtsey to his royal highness, and Stafford left her with him. As he made his way to the end of the room he saw Griffenberg and several of the other financiers in a group, as usual; and they were talking with even more than their ordinary enthusiasm and secretiveness. Griffenberg caught his arm as he was passing.

"Heard the news, Mr. Orme?" he asked.

"No; what is it?" said Stafford.

Griffenberg smiled, but rather gravely.

"They say that the peerage will be announced to-night."

Stafford nodded. And Griffenberg after a stare at Stafford's impassive face which evinced no flush of exultation, glanced at the others curiously, seemed about to add something, then checked himself and turned away, and as Stafford went on, said in a low voice to Wirsch:

"Do you think he has heard? Looked rather glum, didn't he?"

The baron shrugged his shoulders.

"Don't know. He's a shtrange sheentleman. He keeps himself to himself doesh Mishter Shtafford."

Stafford went on, and at one of the anterooms came upon Mr. Falconer. He was standing looking on at the dancing with a grim countenance, and seemed lost in thought; so much so that he was almost guilty of a start when Stafford spoke to him.

"Yes! Great crowd. Just come in? Father all right?"

"Quite well, thanks," said Stafford, rather surprised by the question.

At that moment a servant brought a foreign cablegram to Falconer.
Falconer tore it open, glanced at it, and went pale.

"Anything the matter?" asked Stafford.

Falconer looked at him fixedly and curiously, then with a shake of his head moved away.

Stafford smoked a cigarette and sauntered back to the ballroom. He passed the group of city men again, and caught a word or two in the baron's gruff voice:

"I want to know how we shtand! The plow will shmash him; but the rest of us—us who are in de shwim. If de natives have risen—"

But Stafford paid little heed—forgot the words as soon as he had heard them; and went in search of his partner. While he was dancing, he was aware of that peculiar stir, that flutter and wave of excitement which agitates a crowd when something momentous is happening. He looked round and saw his father standing in the centre of a group of persons, men and women, who all seemed excited. There was loud talking, and sudden and spasmodic movements as fresh auditors to the restless group came up hurriedly and curiously.

"What is the matter, Mr. Orme?" asked the girl with whom he was dancing.

As she spoke he saw Maude detach herself from the group and approach them.

"Stafford—forgive me, Lady Blanche! but will you let him come to Sir
Stephen? He has just heard news—"

They followed her, and Sir Stephen seeing Stafford, held out his hand.
The old man was flushed and his dark eyes sparkled.

"Stafford!" he said, and his rich voice shook. "I have just heard—they have just brought me—"

He held up an official-looking paper with the great red seal on the envelope.

"It is from the prime minister—it is the peerage," said Maude, in a voice thrilling with restrained triumph.

Stafford shook his father's hand.

"I congratulate you, sir," he said, trying all he knew to force congratulation, rejoicing, into his voice.

Sir Stephen nodded, and smiled; his lips were quivering.

"Congratulations, Sir Stephen!" said a man, coming up. "I can see the good news in your face."

"Not Sir Stephen—Lord Highcliffe!" said another, correctingly.

Maude slid her arm in Stafford's, and stood, her lovely face flushed, her eyes sparkling, as she looked round.

"And no title has been more honourably gained," a voice said.

"Or will be more nobly borne!" echoed another.

Stafford, with all a man's hatred of fuss, and embarrassment in its presence, drew nearer to his father.

"Won't you come and sit down—out of the crowd?" he added, in a low voice.

Sir Stephen nodded, and was moving away—they made a kind of lane for him—when a servant came up to him with a cablegram on a salver. As he did so, Howard stepped forward quickly.

"Take it into the study!" he said, almost sharply, to the man; then to
Stafford he whispered: "Don't let him open it. It is bad news.
Griffenberg has just told me—quick! Take it!"

But before Stafford, in his surprise, could take the cablegram, Sir Stephen had got it. He stood with his head erect, the electric light falling on his handsome face: the embodiment of success. He opened the telegram with the smile still on his lips, and read the thing; then the crowd of staring—shall it be written, gaping?—persons saw the smile fade slowly, the flushed face grow paler, still paler, then livid. He looked up and round him as if he were searching for a face, and his eyes, full of anguish and terror, met Stafford's.

"Stafford—my boy!" he cried, in accents of despair.

Stafford sprang to him.

"Father—I am here!" he said, for Sir Stephen's gaze grew vacant as if he had been stricken blind.

The next moment he threw up his arms and, with a gasp, fell forward. Stafford caught him as a cry of terror rose from the crowd which fell back as if suddenly awed by some dreadful presence; and forcing his way through it a famous doctor reached the father and son.

There was a moment of awful suspense, then—the music sounded like a mockery in the silence—all knew, though no word had been spoken, that the great Sir Stephen—pardon! the Right Honourable the Earl of Highcliffe—was dead.

CHAPTER XXXII.

By a stroke, as of Heaven's lightning, the house of joy was turned into the house of mourning.

They bore the dead man to his room, plain and simple, even in that mansion of luxury; the guests departed, some of them flying as from a pestilence, some of them lingering with white and dazed faces and hushed whispers, and Stafford was left alone with his dead; for he had shut the door even upon Howard, who paced up and down outside, not daring to force his sympathy upon his beloved friend.

The morning papers gave a full account of the grand ball, the announcement of Sir Stephen's peerage, and the sudden and tragic ending to a life which had been lived full in the public gaze, a life of struggle and success, which had been cut down at the very moment of extreme victory. They recited the man's marvellous career, and held it up to the admiration and emulation of his fellow Englishmen. They called him a pioneer, one who had added to the Empire, they hinted at a public funeral—and they all discreetly ascribed telling upon a weak heart. Sir Stephen's precarious condition had been known, they said, to his medical adviser, who had for some time past tried to persuade him to relinquish his arduous and nerve-racking occupations, and to take repose.

Not a word was said about the cablegram which had been delivered to him a few moments before his terribly sudden death; for it was felt by all that nothing should be allowed to blur the glory of such a successful career—not for the present, at any rate.

There was no need for an inquest; the great physician who had been in attendance, quite vainly, was prepared to certify to the cause of death, and Stafford's feelings were spared thus far. Someone high in authority suggested the idea of a public funeral, through Howard, whom alone Stafford saw, but Stafford declined the honour, and the first Earl of Highcliffe was carried to his last rest as quietly as circumstances would permit.

The press and the men of the city, with whom the dead man had worked, kept silence about the catastrophe that had happened until after the funeral; then rumours arose, at first in whispers and then more loudly, and paragraphs and leaderettes appeared in the papers hinting at something wrong in connection with Lord Highcliffe's last great scheme, and calling for an enquiry.

The morning after the funeral, Howard found Stafford sitting in a darkened room of the great house, his head in his hand, a morning paper lying open on the table before him. He raised his white and haggard face as Howard entered and took his friend's hand in silence. Howard glanced at the paper and bit his lip.

"Yes," said Stafford, "I have been reading this. You have seen it?"

Howard nodded.

"You know what it means? I want you to tell me. I have been putting off the question day by day, selfishly; I could not face it until—until he was buried. But I can put it off no longer; I must know now. What was that cablegram which they brought him just before—which you tried to keep from him?"

"You have not read any of the newspapers?" asked Howard, gravely, bracing himself for the task from which his soul shrank.

Stafford shook his head.

"No; I have not been able to. I have not been able to do anything, scarcely to think. The blow came so suddenly that I have felt like a man in a dream—dazed, bewildered. If I have been able to think at all it is of his love for me, his goodness to me. There never was such a father—" His voice broke, and he made a gesture with his hand. "Even now I do not realise that he is gone, that I shall never see him again. I was so fond of him, so proud of him! Why do you hesitate? If it is bad news, and I suppose it is, do you think I can't bear it? Howard, there is nothing that you could tell me that could move me, or hurt me. Fate has dealt me its very worst blow in taking him from me, and nothing else can matter. The cablegram, this that the paper says, what does it mean?"

Howard sat on the table so that he could lay his hand, with a friend's loving and consoling touch, on Stafford's arm.

"I've come to tell you, Staff," he said. "I know that you ought to know—but it's hard work—that cablegram contained news that the Zulus had risen en masse, and that for a time, perhaps for years, the railway scheme was blocked, if not utterly ruined. It was the one weak link in the chain, and your father was aware of it and had taken what measures he could to guard against the danger; but Fate, circumstances, were too much for him. A silly squabble, so silly as to be almost childish, between some squatters on the border and the discontented natives, upset all his carefully laid plans, and turned a gigantic success, at its very zenith, into a tragic failure."

Stafford leant his head upon his hand and looked steadily at Howard.

"It was that that killed him?" he said. "It meant ruin, I suppose, ruin for him and others?"

Howard nodded.

"Yes; he had staked all upon this last throw, and the sudden reverse came at a moment when his nerves were strained to the utmost, when he was excited with the honour and glory he had achieved. The blow was too sudden, the revulsion of feeling from exultation to despair too swift, too great. It is one of the most awful things of which I have ever heard or read. Men are speaking about it with bated breath. There is nothing but pity for him, nothing but regret at the stroke of misfortune which cut him down in the moment of his triumph."

"And others?" repeated Stafford. "It has brought ruin upon others. What, can I do? Is there anything I can do? I am so ignorant, I do not even know whether I sit here absolutely penniless, or whether there is anything left that I can give them."

"Mr. Falconer and Murray and the lawyer are in the library," said Howard. "They have been going into affairs. They would have liked to have had you with them; but I begged you off. I knew you would be of no use to them."

Stafford looked his thanks.

"No, I could not have helped them," he said. "No one knew less of my poor father's affairs than I, no one is less capable of dealing with them than I. Mr. Falconer will know what to do. It is very good of him to come to my assistance. I have scarcely seen him; I have not seen anyone but you."

"And Maude?" said Howard, interrogatively.

"No," said Stafford, his brows drawn together. "I have not seen her.
She has been ill—"

"Yes," said Howard, in a low voice. "She is prostrated by the shock, poor girl! You will go to her as soon as she is able to leave her room?"

"Yes, of course," said Stafford, very gravely and wearily.

There was a knock at the door, and the footman, in his mourning livery, came in and said, solemnly:

"Mr. Falconer would like to know if you will see him, my lord?"

A frown crossed Stafford's pale face at the "my lord." It sounded strange and mockingly in his ears.

"I will come at once," he said. "Come with me, Howard."

They went to the library, and the three men who were sitting there before a mass of papers rose to receive him; Falconer with a face as if it were carved out of wood; Murray with anxious brow; the lawyer with a grave and solemn countenance, and sharp, alert eyes. Stafford waved them to their seats and took a chair at the table, and Falconer, with a straight underlip, and eyes half concealed by their thick lids, spoke for the others.

"Very sorry we cannot leave you in peace for a little longer, Lord Highcliffe," he said. "But I am quite sure you would have blamed us had we done so. We have been going into your father's affairs, and I very much regret that we cannot give you a favourable report of them. As you know the will, which Mr. Chaffinch," he nodded at the lawyer, "read this morning, leaves you everything, and names Mr. Chaffinch and Mr. Murray here executors. That's all very proper and satisfactory as it goes, but, unfortunately, we find that there is no estate." Murray, the secretary, passed his hand over his wrinkled forehead and sighed, as if he himself had made away with the vast sum of money, and the lawyer frowned and shuffled the papers before him. Stafford sat with his hands clasped on the table, his eyes fixed on Falconer's impassive face.

"Your father's immense fortune was wholly embarked in this last business," continued Mr. Falconer; "he believed in it and staked everything on it. A very large number of the shares were held by him. They are down to nothing to-day; it is very unlikely that they will recover; it is possible that they never may; and if they should it would be too late, for the shares your father held will, of course, go to meet the claims—and they are heavy—on the estate. I don't know whether I make myself understood: I am aware that you are not a business man."

Stafford inclined his head.

"My father's debts—will they not be paid, will there not be sufficient?" he asked, in a dry voice.

Mr. Falconer pursed his lips and shook his head.

"I'm afraid not; in fact, I can say definitely that they will not," he replied, in a hard, uncompromising way.

Stafford looked round the large, superbly furnished room, with its book-cases of ebony and wedgewood, its costly pictures and bronzes, and recalled the Villa with its luxury and splendour, and the vast sums which Sir Stephen had spent during the last few months. It seemed difficult to realise that the wealth was all gone.

"What is to be done?" he asked, in a low voice.

Mr. Falconer was silent for a moment, as he regarded the handsome face, which seemed to have lost its aspect of youth and taken on the lines and hollows of age.

"I do not know. It is not for me to say. There will be a meeting of the directors of the South African Company and others to-morrow, and some decision will be come to, I have no doubt."

"And I—I can do nothing?" said Stafford, huskily. "I am penniless, I suppose?"

Both Murray and Mr. Chaffinch raised their heads with an air of surprise.

"Penniless" echoed Mr. Chaffinch. "Certainly not, my lord! Surely you know?"

Stafford regarded him gravely; it seemed as if he himself were too crushed by his grief for surprise.

"Know?" he said. "What is in I should know? I do not understand." Mr.
Falconer coughed.

"We thought you were aware of the existence of the deed; that your father had informed you, Lord Highcliffe."

"What deed?" asked Stafford, dully. "I am sorry to appear so dense; but I have not the least idea of your meaning. As you say, Mr. Falconer, I know nothing of business."

"It is evident that your father did not tell you that he executed a deed of gift in your favour, a gift of one hundred thousand pounds," said Mr. Falconer.

"Which deed, being made when he was quite solvent, cannot be upset. The money was placed in trust, and is quite beyond the reach of the creditors," said Mr. Chaffinch. "We thought you were aware of this, my lord."

Stafford shook his head. He evinced no sign of relief, the colour did not rise to his face, and his eyes were still fixed on Falconer.

"It was a very wise provision," said Mr. Chaffinch, approvingly. "And distinctly one I should have recommended; but Sir Stephen—Lord Highcliffe—did it of his own accord. He was a far-seeing man, and he was aware that fortune might fail him, that it was necessary he should place you, my lord, out of danger. I can well believe that, even at that time, he saw the peerage coming, and felt that you should be made secure, that you should have a sufficient income to support the title. It is not a tenth, a twentieth of the sum you would have inherited, but for this unfortunate accident of the native rising, and the collapse of the South African Company."

Stafford scarcely heard him. He was thinking of his father's loving foresight and care for his son's future. A pang of bereavement shot through him.

"Very wise," said Mr. Falconer, grimly. "Whatever happens, Lord Highcliffe is safe, high and dry above water mark. Carefully invested, the capital sum may be made to produce an income of four thousand, or thereabouts. Not too much for an earldom, but—Ah, well, it might be so much worse."

"The servants—the small debts—this house—is there enough for them?" asked Stafford, after a pause.

Mr. Chaffinch waved his hand.

"No need to trouble about that, my lord. There will be sufficient at the bank to pay such small claims. Your lordship will keep the house on?"

Stafford looked up with a sudden energy. "No," he said; "not a moment longer than is necessary. I shall return to my old rooms."

"There is no occasion," began Mr. Chaffinch. "I need scarcely say that the bank will honour your lordship's cheques for any amount."

"Please get rid of this house as soon as possible," said Stafford. He rose as he spoke. "You will remain to lunch?"

They murmured a negative, and Stafford begging to be excused, left the room, signing to Howard to follow him. He did not mean it, but his manner, in the abstraction of his grief was as lordly as if he had inherited an earldom of five centuries. When they had got back to the little darkened room in which he had sat since his father's death, Stafford turned to Howard:

"At what time and place is this meeting to-morrow, Howard?" he asked.

"At Gloucester House, Broad Street. Four."

Stafford nodded, and was lost in thought for a moment or two, then he said:

"Howard, will you send my horses to Tattersall's? And the yacht to the agents, for sale? There is nothing else, I think. I used to have some diamond studs and rings, but I've lost them. I was always careless. Great Heaven! When I think of the money I have spent, money that I would give my life for now!"

"But, my dear old chap, a hundred thousand pounds! Four thousand a year—it's not too much for a man in your position, but there's no need to sell your horses."

Stafford laid his hand on Howard's shoulder and looked into his eyes and laughed strangely; then his hands dropped and he turned away with a sigh.

"Leave me now, Howard," he said, "I want to think—to think."

He sank into a chair, when Howard had gone, and tried to think of his future; but it was only the past that rose to his mind; and it was not altogether of his father that he thought, but of—Ida. In his sacrifice of himself, he had sacrificed her. And Fate had punished him for his forced treachery. He sat with his head in his hands, for hours, recalling those eyes, and yes, kissed her sweet lips. God, what a bankrupt he was! His father, his sweetheart, his wealth—all had been taken from him.

He did not think of Maude.