ed her. She said something
hateful--something about having married her, and not a woman from
Quebec. I smiled--I couldn't help it; then I laughed, a bit wild, I
suppose. I saw the flash of steel. ... I believe I laughed in her
face as I fell. When I came to she was lying with her head on my
breast--dead--stone dead."

Lady Belward sat with closed eyes, her fingers clasping and unclasping
on the top of her cane; but Sir William wore a look half-satisfied,
half-excited.

He now hurried his story.

"I got well, and after that stayed in the North for a year. Then I
passed down the continent to Mexico and South America. There I got a
commission to go to New Zealand and Australia to sell a lot of horses.
I did so, and spent some time in the South Sea Islands. Again I drifted
back to the Rockies and over into the plains; found Jacques Brillon, my
servant, had a couple of years' work and play, gathered together some
money, as good a horse and outfit as the North could give, and started
with Brillon and his broncho--having got both sense and experience, I
hope--for Ridley Court. And here I am. There's a lot of my life that
I haven't told you of, but it doesn't matter, because it's adventure
mostly, and it can be told at any time; but these are essential facts,
and it is better that you should hear them. And that is all, grandfather
and grandmother."

After a minute Lady Belward rose, leaned on her crutch, and looked at
him wistfully. Sir William said: "Are you sure that you will suit this
life, or it you?"

"It is the only idea I have at present; and, anyhow, it is my rightful
home, sir."

"I was not thinking of your rights, but of the happiness of us all."

Lady Belward limped to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder.

"You have had one great tragedy, so have we: neither could bear another.
Try to be worthy--of your home."

Then she solemnly kissed him on the cheek. Soon afterwards they went to
their rooms.

CHAPTER IV. AN HOUR WITH HIS FATHER'S PAST

In his bedroom Gaston made a discovery. He chanced to place his hand in
the tail-pocket of the coat he had worn. He drew forth a letter. The ink
was faded, and the lines were scrawled. It ran:

It's no good. Mr. Ian's been! It's face the musik now. If you
want me, say so. I'm for kicks or ha'pence--no diffrense.
Yours, J.

He knew the writing very well--Jock Lawson's. There had been some
trouble, and Mr. Ian had "been," brin