was a great family resemblance between us all, I believe."

"He died from an accident, did he not?" said Mr. O'Moore, an Irishman,
who liked to be called "The O'Moore."

"Yes."

Percival Elster turned to his brother, and spoke in low tones. "Edward,
was any particular person suspected of having fired the shot?"

"None. A set of loose, lawless characters were out that night, and--"

"What are you all looking at here?"

The interruption came from Lady Kirton, who was sailing into the room
with Maude. A striking contrast the one presented to the other. Maude in
pink silk and a pink wreath, her haughty face raised in pride, her dark
eyes flashing, radiantly beautiful. The old dowager, broad as she was
high, her face rouged, her short snub nose always carried in the air, her
light eyes unmeaning, her flaxen eyebrows heavy, her flaxen curls crowned
by a pea-green turban. Her choice attire was generally composed, as
to-day, of some cheap, flimsy, gauzy material bright in colour. This
evening it was orange lace, all flounces and frills, with a lace scarf;
and she generally had innumerable ends of quilted net flying about her
skirts, not unlike tails. It was certain she did not spend much money
upon her own attire; and how she procured the costly dresses for Maude
the latter appeared in was ever a mystery. You can hardly fancy the
bedecked old figure that she made. The O'Moore nearly laughed out, as he
civilly turned to answer her question.

"We were looking at this portrait, Lady Kirton."

"And saying how much he was like Val," put in young Carteret, between
whom and the dowager warfare also existed. "Val, which was the elder?"

"George was."

"Then his death made you heir-presumptive," cried the thoughtless young
man, speaking impulsively.

"Heir-presumptive to what?" asked the dowager snapping at the words.

"To Hartledon."

"_He_ heir to Hartledon! Don't trouble yourself, young man, to imagine
that Val Elster's ever likely to come into Hartledon. Do you want to
shoot his lordship, as _he_ was shot?"

The uncalled-for retort, the strangely intemperate tones, the quick
passionate fling of the hand towards the portrait astonished young
Carteret not a little. Others were surprised also; and not one present
but stared at the speaker. But she said no more. The pea-green turban and
flaxen curls were nodding ominously; and that was all.

The animus to Val Elster was very marked. Lord Hartledon glanced at his
broth