in the country remained
at any inn of the neighborhood in which he might chance to find himself
wandering. And wandering is an excellent word to apply to Lord
Caranby's peregrinations. He was as restless as a gipsy and far more
aimless. He never appeared to take an interest in anything: he was
always moving here, there and everywhere, and had--so far as Cuthbert
knew--no object in life. His reason for this Cainlike behavior,
Caranby never condescended to explain.

When his nephew entered the room, looking smart and handsome in his
accurate evening suit, Caranby, who was seated near the fire, stood up
courteously to welcome him, leaning on his cane. He suffered from
sciatica, and could not walk save with the assistance of his stick.
And on this account also, he always insisted on the room being heated
to an extraordinary degree. Like a salamander he basked in the heat,
and would not allow either door or window to be opened, even in the
midst of summer, when a large fire made the apartment almost
unendurable. Cuthbert felt as though he were walking into a Turkish
bath, and sat as far away from the fire as he could. After saluting
him, his uncle sank back into his seat and looked at him inquiringly.

Lord Caranby was tall and thin--almost emaciated--with a lean, sallow,
clean-shaven face, and a scanty crop of fair hair mixed with gray. His
eyes were sunken but full of vitality, although usually they were grave
and somewhat sad. His hands were deformed with gout, but for all that
he wore several costly rings. He was perfectly dressed, and as quiet
and composed as an artist's model. When he spoke it was in an
unemotional way, as though he had exhausted all expression of his
feelings early in life. Perhaps he had, for from what Cuthbert had
heard from his uncle, the past of that nobleman was not without
excitement. But Caranby's name was rarely mentioned in London. He
remained so much abroad that he had quite dropped out of the circle to
the entry of which his rank entitled him. His age was sixty-five.

"You are surprised at seeing me again to-night," said Cuthbert.

"I am never surprised at anything," replied his uncle dryly, "but we
exhausted all we had to say to one another before eight o'clock last
night, at which time you left. I therefore don't know why you have
come this evening. Our conversation is bound to be dull, and--excuse
me--I can't afford to be bored at my age."

"I cannot say that our co