At noon the following day there was a large meeting at Gloucester House. There gathered the Beltons, Baron Wirsch, Griffenberg, and the titled and untitled folk who had been concerned in Sir Stephen Orme's big scheme. And they were all gloomy and in a bad temper; for all of them had lost money and some of them were well-nigh ruined by the collapse of the company which was to have made their fortunes. They came before noon, the appointed hour, and talked, sometimes in undertones, but not seldom in loud and complaining voices. By one and all the dead man was blamed for the ruin in which he had involved them. They had left the whole thing in his hands: he ought to have foreseen, ought to have taken proper precautions. They had been—well, if not duped and deceived, the victims of his criminal sanguineness and carelessness.

Griffenberg, being one of the heaviest losers, was elected to the chair, but beyond making a statement which told them nothing, he could do little. When he informed them that Lord Highcliffe had died practically insolvent, a murmur arose, a deep guttural murmur which was something between a hiss and a groan, and it was while this unpleasant sound was filling the room that Stafford entered.

The groan, if groan it can be called, died away, and they all turned and looked at his pale and careworn face. The tall figure in its deep mourning dress silenced them for the moment.

Griffenberg signed Stafford to a seat beside him.

"I am sure we can tell Lord Highcliffe that we are glad to see him, that we are much obliged for his attendance."

Some few said "Hear! hear!" but the rest were silent and watchful. As Griffenberg spoke the door opened again and Ralph Falconer entered. He glanced at Stafford and knit his brows, but dropped heavily into a chair, and sat with stony face and half-lowered lids. He had scarcely taken his seat when Howard entered in his quiet fashion, and he went and stood just behind Stafford.

"I was just telling the meeting, Lord Highcliffe, that I was afraid we were in a bad way." said Griffenberg. "We all relied so completely on Sir Stephen—I beg pardon, Lord Highcliffe, your father—that we feel ourselves helpless now—er—left in the lurch. The company is in great peril; there has already been heavy loss, and we fear that our property will be swallowed up—"

"Ask him what Sir Stephen did with all his money!" cried an excited shareholder.

"Order!" said Mr. Griffenberg. "Lord Highcliffe is not here to answer questions."

"Then what's he here for?" retorted another man whose loss amounted to a few hundreds, but who was more excited and venomous than those who had many thousands at stake. "He's all right. He's a lord—a pretty lord!—and I'm told the gentleman he's next to is his future father-in-law, and is rolling in money—"

"Order! order!" called Griffenberg.

But the man declined to be silenced.

"Oh, it's all very well to call 'Order!' But I've a question to ask. I want to know whether it's true that Sir Stephen—blow 'Lord Highcliffe,' Sir Stephen's good enough for me!—made over a hundred thousand pounds to his son, the young gentleman sitting there. Some of us is ruined by this company, and we don't see why we should be sheared while Lord Highcliffe gets off with a cool hundred thousand. I ask the question and I wait for an answer."

Stafford rose, his pale, handsome face looking almost white above his black frock-coat and black tie.

"Sit down! Don't answer him," said Griffenberg.

"It is quite true," he said. "The money—a hundred thousand pounds—was given to me. It was given to me when my father"—his voice broke for a moment—"was in a position to give it, was solvent—"

"I said so, didn't I?" yelled the man who had put the question.

"Order! order!" said Griffenberg.

"And I am informed that the gift was legal, that it cannot be touched—"

"Of course it can't! Trust Sir Stephen to look after his own!" wailed the man.

"But I yield it, give it up," said Stafford in the same level voice.

Falconer started from his seat and laid a hand on Stafford's arm.

"Don't be a fool!", he whispered in his thick voice.

But Stafford did not heed him.

"I give it up, relinquish it," he said in the same low, clear tones. "When my father"—his voice again shook for a moment, but he mastered his emotion—"made the deed, he thought himself a rich man. If he were alive to-day"—there was a pause, and the meeting hung on his words—"he would entirely agree with what I am doing. I give up the deed of gift, I relinquish it. My lawyers have made me the proper document, and I now give it to your chairman. It is all I possess; if I had more, I would give it to you. My father was an honourable man, if he were here now—"

He placed the deed before Griffenberg, and sank into his seat.

There was a moment of intense silence, then a cheer arose, led by the very man who had put the question.

Griffenberg sprang to his feet.

"I hope you are satisfied, gentlemen," he said, with as much emotion as a city man can permit himself. "Lord Highcliffe has behaved like a gentleman, like a nobleman. I can assure you that his sacrifice is a real one. The deed of gift which he has surrendered is a perfectly sound one, and could not have been touched. All honour to him for his surrender, for his generosity."

Another cheer arose—again it was started by the very man who had attacked poor Stafford, and before it had ceased to ring through the crowded room, Stafford had made his way out.

Mr. Falconer caught him by the arm as he was going down the stairs.

"Do you know what you have done?" he demanded in his dry, harsh voice.
"You have made yourself a pauper."

Stafford stopped and looked at him with a dull, vacant gaze.

"A pauper!" repeated Falconer, huskily.

"I daresay," said Stafford, wearily.

"And you an earl!" said Falconer, his face a brick-dust red. "Do you
think they will have any pity? Not they. They'll take you at your word.
They'll have every penny! How do you mean to live? You, the Earl of
Highcliffe!"

Stafford passed his hand across his brow; and a smile, a grim smile, curved his lips.

"I don't know," he said. "The money was theirs, not mine."

"Stuff and rubbish!" said Falconer. "You thought only of yourself, of your father's good name. I need scarcely tell you that Maude…"

Stafford waited, his pale face set like a statue's.

—"That Maude—well, you don't expect her to consider the engagement binding after—after this?" The blood rushed to Stafford's face.

"I understand," he said. "Miss Falconer is free. I resign all claim to her."

At this moment Howard came out. He had almost fought his way from the crowded room.

"Stafford!" he cried. "It is not too late! You can take it back! They are friendly!"

Stafford smiled.

"I've nothing to take back!" he said.

Howard linked his arm in his friend's.

"Good Lord! But it was splendid! But all the same—Stafford, have you considered? It will leave you practically penniless!"

"I know," said Stafford. "I have considered. Let us go home."

They went home to Stafford's room. Howard was hot with the enthusiasm of admiration, and with the effort to suppress it; for nowadays men do not tolerate praise even from their dearest friend. It seemed to Howard as if Stafford's act of renunciation had brought him a certain sense of relief, as if some portion of the heavy weight had been lifted from his heart.

"Of course now we have to go into a committee of ways and means, my dear Staff; you won't mind my asking you what you're going to do? I need not say that there is no need for any precipitate action. I—er—the fact is, Staff, I have a sum of money lying at the bank which absolutely annoys me by its uselessness. The bank manager has been bothering me about it for some time past, and it was such a nuisance that I thought of tossing him whether he should take or I. It isn't much—a man doesn't amass a large fortune by writing leaders for the newspapers and articles for reviews—but of course you wouldn't be so mean as to refuse to borrow what there is. I'm very much afraid that you'll suffer by this absurdly quixotic action of yours, which, mind you! though I admire it, as I admire the siege of Troy, or the battle of Waterloo, is a piece of darned foolishness. However, let that go! What do you mean to do?"

"I don't know yet," said Stafford. He didn't thank Howard for the offer; no thanks were necessary. "The thing is so sudden that I have not made any plans. I suppose there's something I can do to earn my living. I've no brains, but I'm pretty strong. I might drive a hansom cab or an omnibus, better men than I have done worse. Leave me alone, old man, to have a pipe and think of it." Howard lingered for an hour or two, for he felt that though Stafford had dismissed him, he had need of him; and when he had gone Stafford took his hat and went out. He did not call a hansom, but walked on regardless of his route, and lost in thought. Something of the weight that had crushed him had been lifted from his heart: he was penniless, the future stretched darkly before him with a darkness through which there appeared no road or sign of light; but he was free. He would not be compelled to go to the altar, there to perjure himself with an oath to love and cherish one woman while he loved another. I am afraid he did not feel much pity for Maude, simply because he did not realise how much she cared for him.

He walked on for some time and at last found himself somewhere down by the Minories, in that mysterious East End, of which we hear so much and of which we know so little. A little farther on he came upon the river and he stood for a moment or two watching some sheep and cattle being driven on board an ocean tramp. The sight of them recalled Herondale and Ida; and he was turning away, with a sigh, when a burly man with a large slouch hat stuck on the back of his head came lurching out of one of the little wooden offices on the quay. He was apparently the owner of the sheep, or in some way concerned with them, for he harangued the drovers in a flow of language which though rich in profanity, was poured forth in a pleasant and jovial voice. He had been drinking unwisely and too well, and as he wobbled richly about the small quay he happened to lurch against Stafford, who was attempting to avoid him. He begged Stafford's pardon profusely and with such good-natured penitence that Stafford in addition to granting him the forgiveness he requested, asked him where the sheep and cattle were going.

"To my little place, Salisbury Plain." Seeing the astonishment which Stafford could not keep out of his face, the man laughed and explained. "Not your Salisbury Plain, not the place here in England, but in the Burra-Burra country, Australia," he pointed with his fat hand downwards. "Right underneath. They're prize rams and bulls. I like to have the best, and I paid a devil of a long price for them; but I've got enough left for a drink if you'll come and have one."

Stafford declined, but the man clung on to his arm, and thinking it the easiest way of getting rid of him, and to avoid a scene, Stafford accompanied him to the clean and inviting little public at the corner of the quay, and permitted the man to order a glass of ale for him; the bar-maid, without receiving any intimation, placed a large joram of rum before the man, who remarked, after raising his glass to Stafford's health:

"Yes, sir, and I'm going with those beasts. I've nothing to say against Old England so long as you don't ask me to live here. I've been here six weeks, and there's only one thing that I feel I want and can't get—no, miss, it ain't rum, there's plenty of that, thank God!—it's air, air. I suppose the city gents are used to living without it, though some of you look pale enough. You don't look quite the thing yourself, sir; rather white about the gills, and not enough meat on you. Ah! I'd soon alter that if I had you at Salisbury Plain. Lord! I should like to take out a whole shipload of you; and mind, I could do with a few, and pay you better wages than you get in the City of London. And the life! Why, you'd think yourselves kings, with a horse to ride and plenty to eat, and plenty of fun. But there! you can't tell what it's like unless you've seen it, and if ever you should have a fancy to see it, you come out to Salisbury Plain, to my little place on the Burra-Burra; for I like the look of you, young man; you're a gentleman, though I've an idea you're down on your luck—I ain't so drunk that I can't see through a man's eyes, and there's trouble in yours; been outrunning the constable, eh? And you're not too proud to take a drink with an honest man—honest, though rough, maybe."

"Not at all," said Stafford, "and now you will take a drink with me, or shall we make it a cigar?" for he did not want to lead the man any further on the road of inebriety.

"A cigar? Right you are," the settler replied, promptly. He took out an envelope, intending to screw it up for a light, but suddenly caught sight of the address, and with genial gravity handed the envelope to Stafford. "There's my name—Henery Joffler, and there's my address, and anybody at Melbourne will tell you the best way of getting there. Come when you like, winter or summer, and you'll find Henery Joffler ready to receive you with a welcome. Now I will have a drink," he remarked, as if he had not partaken of one for a calendar month.

When Stafford left the little public house, he held the envelope in his hand and was about to tear it up, when he checked himself and mechanically put it into his pocket. The incident, if it had not actually amused him, had diverted his mind in a wholesome manner for a short space; but he had almost forgotten it when has reached his rooms. The time had slipped by him and it was now twilight and as he was crossing the room in the dusk to ring the bell for a light, a woman rose from his chair and came towards him with out-stretched hands and his name on her lips.

"Maude!" he exclaimed, startled out of his self-possession. Then it flashed upon him that she should not be there, in his rooms, alone; and he looked at her gravely.

"Why have you come, Maude?" he said. "Wait but one moment and I will call a cab—go home with you."

"No," she said, presently. "Did you think I should not come, Stafford? I have been here for hours." She drew nearer to him, her eyes, so cold to others, burning like sapphires as they were raised to his. "Did you think when I had heard what you had done that I should keep away? No! I—I am proud of you—can you not guess how proud?—my heart is aching with it. Ah, but it was like you, Stafford!"

As she put her hand on his shoulder and looked at him with a smile of pride, and of adoration, Stafford's eyes fell before hers.

"I could do nothing else," he said. "But I am sorry you came, Maude.
Didn't Mr. Falconer tell you?"

She laughed and threw back her head with a defiant gesture.

"Yes—as if it mattered! As if anyone—even he—could separate us! Besides, what he said was in a fit of temper, he was annoyed by your surrendering the money. And he could not speak for me—could not control me."

"Let me get a light," said Stafford.

"No matter," she said, as if she could not bear him to leave her side, even for a moment. "Stafford, dearest, you will not think of, you will forget, what he said? It was spoken in a moment of irritation. Oh, my dearest, let me look at you—it is so long since I saw you, so long, so long! How pale you are, and how weary looking!"

Her other arm went round his neck, and she would have drawn his face down to her lips, but Stafford checked her.

"You should not be here," he stammered.

She laughed.

"How proud you are! Yes, and I love you for it! You think that I should desert you, as most women would do!" She laughed again. "If you were a pauper—"

"It is what your father called me," he said, gravely

She smiled up into his gloomy eyes defiantly, temptingly.

"What does it matter? I am rich—my father is rich—"

Stafford winced and his face flamed, but she had turned aside for a moment and did not see the effect of her words.

—"And you have more than wealth," she laughed. "I reminded him of that, and it sobered him. Oh, believe me! for all his pretended stoicism, my father values a title as keenly as most men, and at heart is anxious to see his daughter a countess."

Stafford bit his lip.

"I will take you home now," he said. Something in his voice told her that she had made a wrong step, that she had failed. With a cry she clung to him more tightly, and drawing back her head, scanned his face.

"Stafford! You—you don't mean to leave me—to throw me off! Say it—promise me!" She laughed hysterically and would have slipped to her knees at his feet; but he held her firmly. "See, dearest, I would plead to you, pray to you! I am—so afraid. But you won't do that—you won't let anything separate us? Hush! there is my father. Stafford, you will listen, you will agree!"

As Falconer knocked at the door, she released Stafford, but stood near him, with her hand resting on his arm.

Falconer came in and regarded them from under his lowered lids.

"I might have expected to find you here," he said harshly to Maude.

"Yes; I came to him," she said, with a little gesture. "Why should I not? Why should I care—"

Falconer shrugged his shoulders, and turned from her to Stafford.

"I've come to take back what I said this morning," he said, in his dry voice. "I was hasty, and your—insensate folly in giving up the money upset me. I have been talking the matter over with Maude, and we have agreed to—to—continue the engagement."

Stafford lit a couple of candles and the scant light fell upon the faces of the three, the white one of the woman, the stern and set one of Stafford, and the hard and impassive one of Mr. Falconer.

"Of course a large sum of money will have to be found; and I must find it. It will be settled upon Maude—with, of course, a suitable allowance for a nobleman of your rank—"

"One moment," said Stafford, very quietly. "Before you go any further, I have to correct a misapprehension, Mr. Falconer. I do not intend to use my title."

"What!" exclaimed Falconer, his face growing darker.

"I intend dropping the earldom," said Stafford.

"But I don't intend you should," retorted Falconer, brutally. "If I consent to my daughter's marrying a pauper—"

"A pauper is one who begs," said poor Stafford, his face white as marble. "I have not yet begged—"

"Stafford!" cried Maude. Then she swung on her father. "Why do you speak to him—to him—like this?—Stafford, you will yield—"

"In everything, in every way, but this," he said, with the same ominous quietude. "If you are content to drop the title, to share the life of a poor and an ordinary working-man—as I hope to be—"

He held out his hand, and she would have taken it, clung to it, but her father strode between them, and with a harsh laugh, exclaimed:

"You fool! Don't you see that he is wanting to get rid of you, that he is only too glad of the excuse? Great God! have you no touch of womanliness in you, no sense of shame—"

She swept him aside with a gesture, and advancing to Stafford, looked straight into his eyes.

"Is—is it true?" she asked hoarsely. "Tell me! Is what he says true? That—that rather than marry me you would go out into the world penniless, to earn your living—you? Answer! Do—do you love me?"

His eyes dropped, his teeth clenched, and the moment of silence hung heavy in the room. She turned from him, her hand going to her brow with a gesture of weariness and despair.

"Let us go," she said to her father. "He does not love me—he never did. I thought that perhaps in time—in time—"

The sight of her humiliation was more than Stafford could bear. He strode to her and laid his hand on hers.

"Wait—Maude," he said, hoarsely. "I must lay the title aside; I cannot accept your father's money. I must work, as other and better men have done, are doing. If you will wait until I have a home to offer you—"

She turned to him, her face glowing, her eyes flashing.

"I will go with you now, now—this moment, to poverty—to peril, anywhere. Oh, Stafford, can't you see, can't you value the love I offer you?"

When her father had led her away, Stafford sank into a chair and hid his face in his hands. He was no longer free, the shackles were upon him. And he was practically penniless. What should he do?

He got his pipe and felt in his pocket for his matches. As he did so he came upon Mr. "Henery" Joffler's envelope. He looked at it vacantly for a moment or two; then he laughed, a laugh that was not altogether one of derision or amusement.