nto his confidence. Fortune, character, life itself,
perhaps, seemed to him to be hanging on a thread. For, if Dino Vasari
remembered his treachery and exposed it, he knew that he should be
ruined and disgraced. And he was resolved not to survive any such public
exposure. He would die by his own hand rather than stand in the dock as
a would-be murderer.

Even if things were not so bad as that, he did not see how he was to
exonerate himself from another charge; a minor one, indeed, but one
which might make him look very black in some people's eyes. He had known
of Dino's claims for many weeks, as well as of Brian's existence. Why
had he told no one of his discoveries? What if Dino spoke of the tissue
of lies which he had concocted, the forgery of Brian's handwriting, in
the interview which they had had in Tarragon-street? Fortunately, Dino
had burned the letter, and there had been no auditor of the
conversation. Of course, he must deny that he had known anything of the
matter. Dino could prove nothing against him; he could only make
assertions. But assertions were awkward things sometimes.

So Hugo skulked and frowned and listened, and was told nothing definite;
but saw by the light of previous knowledge that there was great
excitement in the bosoms of his aunt and the family lawyer. There were
letters and telegrams sent off, and Hugo was disgusted to find that he
could not catch sight of their addresses, much less of their contents.
Mr. Colquhoun looked gloomy; Mrs. Luttrell sternly exultant. What was
going on? Was Brian coming home; or was Dino to be recognised in Brian's
place?

Hugo knew nothing. But one fine autumn morning, as he was standing in
the garden at Netherglen, he saw a dog-cart turn in at the gate, a
dog-cart in which four men had with some difficulty squeezed
themselves--the driver, Mr. Colquhoun, Dino Vasari, and a red-faced man,
whom Hugo recognised, after a minute's hesitation, as the well-known
solicitor, Mr. Brett.

Hugo drew back into the shrubbery and waited. He dared not show himself.
He was trembling in every limb. The hour of his disgrace was drawing
near.

Should he take advantage of the moment, and leave Netherglen at once, or
should he wait and face it out? After a little reflection he determined
to wait. From what he had seen of Dino Vasari he fancied that it would
not be easy to manage him. Yet he seemed to be a simple-minded youth,
fresh from the precincts of a monastery: he could s