the silence.

"Do you?"

"I do. What has my life been for fifteen years?" Nicholas had demanded.

"What you have made of it," had been the answer.

"What God or the devil has made of it, aided by Baccarat--poor beast,"
Nicholas had retorted savagely.

"The devil, possibly," the man had replied, "but aided and abetted by
yourself."

"Confound you, what are you talking about?" Nicholas had cried.

The man had still looked towards the book-cases.

"Listen," he had said. "For fifteen years you have lived the life of a
recluse--a useless recluse, mind you. And why? Because of pride,--sheer
pride. Those who had known you in the strength of your manhood, those who
had known you as Nick the dare-devil, should never see the broken
cripple. Pride forbade it. You preferred to run to cover, to lie hidden
there like a wounded beast, rather than face, like a man, the odds that
were against you,--heavy odds, I'll allow."

Nicholas's eyes had blazed.

"How dare you!" he had shouted.

"You've a year left," went on the man calmly. "I should advise you to see
what use you can make of it."

"The first use I'll make of it is to order you from the house. You can go
at once." Nicholas had pointed towards the door.

The man had got up.

"All right," he had said, looking at him for the first time in the last
ten minutes. "But don't forget. You've got the year, you know."

"To hell with the year," said Nicholas curtly.

"Damn the fellow," he had said as the door had closed behind him. But the
very truth of the words had left a wound,--a clean-cut wound however.
There was never any bungling where Doctor Hilary was concerned.

And now incisive, sharp, came the taps of the hammer on it, taps dealt by
Job Grantley's chance words.

"Confound both the men," he muttered. "But the fellow deserved the five
pounds. It was the first interest I've had for fifteen years. The kind of
entrance I'd have made myself, too; or perhaps mine would have been even
a bit more unusual, eh, Nick the dare-devil!"

It was the old name again. He had never earned it through the least
malice, however. Fool-hardiness perhaps, added to indomitable high
spirits and good health, but malice, never.

How Father O'Brady had chuckled over the prank that had first earned him
the title,--the holding up of the coach that ran between Byestry and
Kingsleigh, Nick at the head of a band of half a dozen young scapegraces
clad in black masks and huge hats, and armed