Hugo's meditations were long and deep. More than an hour elapsed before he roused himself from the thoughtful attitude which he had assumed at the close of his first perusal of this letter. When he lifted his face from his hands, his lips were white, although they were twisted into the semblance of a smile.

"So that is why I fancied I knew his face," he said, half aloud. "Who would have thought it? Brian alive, after all! What a fool he must be! What an unmitigated, egregious fool!"

He poured out some brandy for himself with rather a shaky hand, and drank it off without water. He shivered a little, and drew closer to the fire. "It's a very cold night," he muttered, holding his hands out to the leaping flame, and resting his forehead upon the marble mantelpiece. "It's a cold night, and —— it all, are my wits going? I can't think clearly; I can hardly see out of my eyes. It's the shock; that's what it is. The shock? Yes, Dio mio, and it is a shock, in all conscience! Whoever would have believed that Brian could possibly be alive all this time! Poor devil! I suppose that little 'accident' to Richard preyed upon his mind. He must be mad to have given up his property from a scruple of that sort. I never should have thought that a man could be such a fool. It's an awful complication."

He threw himself into an arm-chair, and leaned back with his dark, delicately-beautiful face slanted reflectively towards the ceiling. He was too much disturbed in mind to afford himself the solace of a cigar.

"This old fellow—the Prior—seems to know the family affairs very intimately," he went on thinking. "This is another extraordinary occurrence. Brian alive is nothing to the fact that Brian is the son of some Italian woman—a peasant-woman probably. Did Aunt Margaret suspect it? She always hated Brian; every one could see that. When she said once, 'He is not my son,' did she mean the words literally? Quite possible."

"And the real Brian Luttrell is now to appear on the scene! What is his name? Dino—Bernardino—Vasari. Of course, there was little use in his coming forward as long as Richard Luttrell was alive. Now that he is gone and Brian is heir to the property, this young fellow, whom the priests have got hold of, becomes important. No doubt this is what they have hoped for all along. He will have the property and he is a devout son of the Church, and will employ it to Catholic ends. I know the jargon—I heard enough of it in Sicily. They have the proofs, no doubt—they could easily manufacture them if they were wanting; and they will oust Elizabeth Murray and set their pet pupil in her place, and manage the land and the money and everything else for him. And what will Mrs. Luttrell say?"

He paused, and changed his position uneasily. His brows contracted; his eye grew restless as he continued to reflect.

"It's my belief," he said at last, "that Mrs. Luttrell will be enchanted. And then what will become of me?"

He rose from his chair and began to pace up and down the room. "What will become of me?" he repeated. "What will become of the fifteen-hundred a-year, and the house and grounds, and all the rest of the good things that she promised to give me? They will go, no doubt, to the son and heir. Did she ever propose to give me anything while Richard and Brian had to be provided for? Not she! She notices me now only because she thinks that I am the only Luttrell in existence. When she knows that there is a son of her's still living, I shall go to the wall. I shall be ruined. There will be no Netherglen for me, no marriage with an heiress, no love-making with pretty little Kitty. I shall have to disappear from the scene. I cannot hold my ground against a son—a son of the house! Curses on him! Why isn't he dead?"

Hugo bestowed a few choice Sicilian epithets of a maledictory character upon Dino Vasari and Brian Luttrell both; then he returned to the table and studied the latter pages of Father Cristoforo's letter.

"Meet him in London. I should like to meet Dino Vasari, too. I wonder whether Brian had read this letter when he dropped it. These instructions come at the very end. If he has not read these sentences, I might find a way of outwitting them all yet. I think I could prevent Dino Vasari from ever setting foot in Scotland. How can I find out?"

"And what an extraordinary thing for Brian to do—to take a tutorship in the very family where Elizabeth Murray is living. What has he done it for? Is he in love with one of those girls? Or does he hope to retrieve his mistake by persuading Elizabeth Murray to marry him? A very round-about way of getting back his fortune, unless he means to induce Dino Vasari to hold his tongue. If Dino Vasari were out of the way, and Brian felt his title to the estate rather shaky, of course, it would be very clever of him to make love to Elizabeth. But he's too great a fool for that. What was his motive, I wonder? Is it possible that he did not know who she was?"

But he rejected this suggestion as an entirely incredible one.

After a little further thought, another idea occurred to him. Father Cristoforo's letter consisted of three closely-written sheets of paper. He separated the first sheet from the others; the last words on the sheet ran as follows:—

"Is it on account of either of these ladies that you have returned to England?"

This sheet he folded and enclosed in an envelope, which he carefully sealed and addressed to John Stretton, Esquire. He placed the other sheets in his own pocket-book, and then went peacefully to bed. He could do nothing more, he told himself, and, although his excitable disposition prevented his sleeping until dawn grew red in the eastern sky, he would not waste his powers unnecessarily by sitting up to brood over the resolution that he had taken.

Before ten o'clock next morning he was riding to Strathleckie. On reaching the house he asked at once if he could see Mr. Stretton. The maid-servant who answered the door looked surprised, hesitated a moment, and then asked him to walk in. He followed her, and was not surprised to find that she was conducting him straight to the school-room, which was on the ground-floor. He had thought that she looked stupid; now he was sure of it. But it was a stupidity so much to his advantage that he mentally vowed to reward it by the gift of half-a-crown when he had the opportunity.

The boys were at their lessons; their tutor sat at the head of the table, with his back towards the light. When he saw Hugo enter, he calmly took a pair of blue spectacles from the table and fixed them upon his nose. Hugo admired the coolness of the action. The blue spectacles were even a better disguise than the grey hair and the beard; if Mr. Stretton had worn them when he was standing at the railway station door, Hugo would never have been haunted by that look of recognition in his eyes.

"Mary has made a mistake," said Mr. Stretton to one of the boys, in a curiously-muffled voice. "Take this gentleman up to the drawing-room, Harry."

"There is no mistake," said Hugo, suavely. "I called to see Mr. Stretton on business; it will not take me a moment to explain. Mr. Stretton, may I ask whether you have lost any paper—a letter, I think—during the last few days?"

"Yes. I lost a letter yesterday afternoon."

"On the high road, I think. Then I was not mistaken in supposing that a paper that the wind blew to my feet this morning, as I was strolling down the road, belonged to yourself. Will you kindly open this envelope and tell me whether the paper contained in it is yours?"

Mr. Stretton took the envelope and opened it without a word. He looked at the sheet, saw that one only was there, and then replied.

"I am much obliged to you for your kindness. Yes, this is part of the letter that I lost."

"Only part? Indeed, I am sorry for that," said Hugo, with every appearance of genuine interest. "I was first attracted towards it because it looked like a foreign letter, and I saw that it was written in Italian. On taking it up, I observed that it was addressed to a Mr. Stretton, and I could think of no other Mr. Stretton in the neighbourhood but yourself."

"I am much obliged to you," Mr. Stretton repeated.

"I hope you will find the rest of the letter," said Hugo, with rather a mocking look in his beautiful eyes. "It is awkward sometimes to drop one's correspondence. I need hardly say that it was safe in my hands——"

"I am sure of that," said Mr. Stretton, mechanically.

"But others might have found it—and read it. I hope it was not an important letter."

"I hope not," Mr. Stretton answered, recovering himself a little; "but the fact is that I had read only the first page or two when I was interrupted, and I must have dropped it instead of putting it into my pocket."

"That was unfortunate," said Hugo. "I hope it contained no very important communication. Good morning, Mr. Stretton; good morning to you," he added, with a smile for the children. "I must not interrupt you any longer."

He withdrew, with a feeling of contemptuous wonder at the carelessness of a man who could lose a letter that he had never read. It was not the kind of carelessness that he practised.

He did not leave the house without encountering Mrs. Heron and Kitty. He was easily persuaded to stay for a little time. It cost him no effort to make himself agreeable. He was like one of those sleek-coated animals of the panther tribe, sufficiently tamed or tameable to like caresses; and very few people recognised the latent ferocity that lay beneath the velvet softness of those dreamy eyes. He could bask in the sunshine like a cat; but he was only half-tamed after all.

Elizabeth distrusted him; Kitty thought her unjust, and therefore acted as though she liked him better than she really did. She was a child still in her love of mischief, and she soon found a sort of pleasure in alternately vexing and pleasing her new admirer. But she was not in earnest. What did it matter to her if Hugo Luttrell's eyes glowed when she spoke a kind word to him, or his brow grew black as thunder if she neglected him for someone else? It never occurred to her to question whether it was wise to trifle with passions which might be of truly Southern vehemence and intensity.

Hugo did not leave the house without making—or thinking that he had made—a discovery. Mr. Stretton did not appear at luncheon, but Hugo caught sight of him afterwards in the garden—with Elizabeth. To Hugo's mind, the very attitude assumed by the tutor in speaking to Miss Murray was a revelation. He was as sure as he was of his own existence that Mr. Stretton was "in love." Whether the affection was returned by Miss Murray or not he could not feel so sure.

He made his way, after his visit to the Herons, to Mr. Colquhoun's office, and was fortunate in finding that gentleman at home.

"Well, Hugo, and how are you?" asked the lawyer, who did not regard Mrs. Luttrell's nephew with any particular degree of favour. "What brings you to this part of the world again?"

"My aunt's invitation," said Hugo.

"Ah, yes; your aunt has a hankering after anybody of the name of Luttrell, at present. It won't last. Don't trust to it, Hugo."

"I cannot say that I know what you mean, Mr. Colquhoun. I suppose I am at liberty to accept my aunt's repeated and pressing invitation? I came here to ask you a question. I will not trespass on your time longer than I can help."

"Ask away, lad," said the old lawyer, not much impressed by Hugo's stateliness of demeanour. "Ask away. You'll get no lies, at any rate. And what is it you're wanting now?"

"Have you any reason to suppose that my cousin Brian is not dead?"

"No," said Mr. Colquhoun, shortly. "I haven't. I wish I had. Have you?"

Without replying to this question, Hugo asked another.

"You have no reason to think that there is any other man who would call himself by that name?"

"No," said Mr. Colquhoun again, "I haven't. And I don't wish I had. But have you?"

"Yes," said Hugo.

"Come, come, come," said the lawyer, restlessly; "you are joking, young man. Don't carry a joke too far. What do you mean?"

Again Hugo replied by a question. "Did you ever hear of a place called San Stefano?" he said, gently.

Old Mr. Colquhoun bounded in his seat. "Good God!" he said, although he was not a man given to the use of such ejaculations. And then he stared fixedly at Hugo.

"I can't think how it has been kept quiet so long," said Hugo, tentatively. He was feeling his way. But this remark roused Mr. Colquhoun's ire.

"Kept quiet? There was nothing to be kept quiet. Nothing except Mrs. Luttrell's own delusion on the subject; nobody wanted it to be known that she was as mad as a March hare on the subject. The nurse was as honest as the day. I saw her and questioned her myself."

"But my aunt never believed——"

"She never believed Brian to be her son. So much I may tell you without any breach of confidence, now that they are both in their graves, poor lads!" And then Mr. Colquhoun launched out upon the story of Mrs. Luttrell's illness and (so-called) delusion, to all of which Hugo listened with serious attention. But at the close of the narrative, the lawyer remembered Hugo's opening question. "And how did you come to know anything about it?" he said.

Hugo's answer was ready. "I met a queer sort of man in the town this morning who was making inquiries that set me on the alert. I got hold of him—walked along the road with him for some distance—and heard a long story. He was a priest, I think—sent from San Stefano to investigate. I got a good deal out of him."

"Eh?" said Mr. Colquhoun, slowly. "And where might he be staying, yon priest?"

"Didn't ask," replied Hugo. "I told him to come to you for information. So you can look out. There's something in the wind, I'm sure. I thought you might have heard of it. Thank you for your readiness to enlighten me, Mr. Colquhoun. I've learnt a good deal to-day. Good morning."

"Now what did he mean by that?" said the lawyer, when he was left alone. "It's hard to tell when he's telling the truth and when he's lying just for the pleasure of it, so to speak. As for his priest—I'm not so sure that I believe in his priest. I'll send down to the hotel and inquire."

He sent to every hotel in the place, and from every hotel he received the same answer. They had no foreign visitor, and had had none for the last three weeks. There was apparently not a priest in the place. "It'll just be one of Master Hugo's lies," said Mr. Colquhoun, grimly. "There's a rod in pickle for that young man one of these days, and I should like well to have the applying of it to his shoulders. He's an awful scamp, is Hugo."

There was a triumphant smile upon Hugo's face as he rode away from the lawyer's office. Twice in that day had his generalship been successful, and his success disposed him to think rather meanly of his fellow-creatures' intellects. It was surely very easy, and decidedly pleasant, to outwit one's neighbours! He had made both Brian and Mr. Colquhoun give him information which they would have certainly withheld had they known the object for which it had been asked. He was proud of his own dexterity.

On his arrival at Netherglen he found that Mrs. Luttrell and Angela had gone for a drive. He was glad of it. He wanted a little time to himself in Brian's old room. He had already noticed that an old-fashioned davenport which stood in this room had never been emptied of its contents, and in this davenport he found two or three papers which were of service to him. He took them away to his bed-room, where he practised a certain kind of handwriting for two or three hours with tolerable success. He tried it again after dinner, when everybody was in bed, and he tried it again next day. It was rather a difficult hand to imitate well, but he was not easily discouraged.

"I am afraid, dear aunt, that I must run up to town for a day or two," he said to Mrs. Luttrell that evening, with engaging frankness. "I have business to transact. But I will be back in three or four days at most, if you will permit me."

"Do as you please, Hugo," said Mrs. Luttrell, in her stoniest manner. "I have no wish to impose any kind of trammels upon you."

"Dear Aunt Margaret, the only trammels that you impose are those of love!" said Hugo, in his silkiest undertone.

Angela looked up. For the moment she was puzzled. To her, Hugo's speech sounded insincere. But the glance of the eye that she encountered was so caressing, the curves of his mouth were so sweetly infantine, that she accused herself of harsh judgment, and remembered Hugo's foreign blood and Continental training, which had given him the habit, she supposed, of saying "pretty things." She could not doubt his sincerity when she looked at the peach-like bloom of that oval face, the impenetrable softness of those velvet eyes. Hugo's physical beauty always stood him in good stead.

"You are an affectionate, warm-hearted boy, I believe, Hugo," said Mrs. Luttrell. Then, after a short pause, she added, with no visible link of connection, "I have written instructions to Colquhoun. I expect him here to-morrow."

Hugo looked innocent and attentive, but made no comment. His aunt kissed him with more warmth than usual when she said good-night. She had seldom kissed her sons after they reached manhood; but she caressed Hugo very frequently. She was softer in her manner with him than she had been even with Richard.

"Take care of yourself in London," she said to him. "Do you want any money?"

"No, thank you, Aunt Margaret. I shall be back in three days if I start to-morrow—at least, I think so. I'll telegraph if I am detained."

"Yes, do so. To-morrow is the seventeenth. You will be back by the twentieth?"

"If my business is done," said Hugo. And then he went back to his little experiments in caligraphy.

It was not until the afternoon of the 18th of August that he found himself at the door of No. 14, Tarragon-street. It was a dingy-looking house in a dismal-looking street. Hugo shivered a little as he pulled the tarnished bell-handle. "How can people live in streets like this?" he said to himself, with a slight contemptuous shrug of his shoulders.

"Mr. Vasari?" he said, interrogatively, as a downcast-looking woman came to the door.

"Yes, sir. What name, sir, if you please?"

"Say that a gentleman from Scotland wishes to see him."

The woman gave him a keen look, as if she knew something of the errand upon which Dino Vasari had come to her house; but said nothing, and ushered him at once into a sitting-room on the ground-floor. The room was curtained so heavily that it seemed nearly dark. Hugo could not see whether it was tenanted by more than one person; of one he was sure, because that one person came to meet him with outstretched hands and eager words of greeting.

"Mr. Luttrell! You have come, then; you have come—I knew you would!"

"I beg your pardon," said Hugo, and at the sound of his voice the first speaker fell back amazed; "but I am Hugo Luttrell—not Brian. I come from him."

"A thousand pardons; this English darkness is to blame," said the other, in fluent English speech, though with a slightly foreign accent. "Let us have lights; then we can know each other. I am—Dino Vasari."

He said the name with a certain hesitation, as though not sure whether or no he ought to call himself by it. The light of a candle fell suddenly upon the two faces—which were turned towards one another in some curiosity. The two had a kind of superficial likeness of feature, but a total dissimilarity of expression. The subtlety of Hugo's eyes and mouth was never shown more clearly than when contrasted with the noble gravity that marked every line of Dino's traits. They stood and looked at each other for a moment—Dino, wrapped in admiration; Hugo, lost in a thought of dark significance.

"So you are the man!" he was saying to himself. "You call yourself my cousin, do you? And you want the Strathleckie and the Luttrell estates? Be warned and go back to Italy, my good cousin, while you have time; you will never reach Scotland alive, I promise you. I shall kill you first, as I should kill a snake lying in my path. Never in your life, Mr. Dino Vasari, were you in greater danger than you are just now."