dainty, perfumed cigarette--he
very seldom smoked anything except cigarettes--but he held it absently
between his fingers, and finally let it drop, while he read and re-read
a letter which his servant had just brought to him.

Nearly two years had passed since Richard Luttrell's death; years which
had left their mark upon Hugo in many ways. The lines of his delicately
beautiful, dark face had grown harder and sharper; and, perhaps on this
account, he had a distinctly older look than was warranted by his
two-and-twenty years. There were worn lines about his eyes, and a
decided increase of that subtlety of expression which gave something of
an Oriental character to his appearance. He had lost the youthful,
almost boyish, look which had characterised him two years ago; he was a
man now, but hardly a man whom one would have found it easy to trust.

The letter was from Angela Vivian. She had written, at Mrs. Luttrell's
request, to ask Hugo to pay them a visit. Mrs. Luttrell still occupied
the house at Netherglen, and she seemed anxious for an interview with
her nephew. Hugo had not seen her for many months; he had left Scotland
almost immediately after Brian's departure, with the full intention of
setting foot in it no more. But he had then considered himself tolerably
prosperous. Brian's death had thrown a shade over his prospects. He
could no longer count upon a successful application to Mr. Colquhoun if
he were in difficulties, and Brian's six thousand pounds melted before
his requirements like snow before an April sun. He had already
squandered the greater part of it; he was deeply in debt; and he had no
relation upon whom he could rely for assistance--unless it were Mrs.
Luttrell, and Hugo had a definite dislike to the thought of asking Mrs.
Luttrell for money.

It was no more than a dislike, however. It was an unpleasant thing to
do, perhaps, but not a thing that he would refrain from doing, if
necessary. Why should not Mrs. Luttrell be generous to her nephew?
Possibly she wished to make him her heir; possibly she would offer to
pay his debts; at any rate, he could not afford to decline her help. So
he must start for Netherglen next day.

"Netherglen! They are still there," he said to himself, as he stared
moodily at the sheet of black-edged note-paper, on which the name of the
house was stamped in small, black letters. "I wonder that they did not
leave the place. I should have done so if I had been Aunt Margaret.