ersation. _Didn't_ he know, hadn't
he come into it as a matter of course?--that question hummed in my
brain. Of course he knew; otherwise he wouldn't return my stare so
queerly. His wife had told him what I wanted, and he was amiably amused
at my impotence. He didn't laugh--he was not a laugher: his system was
to present to my irritation, so that I should crudely expose myself, a
conversational blank as vast as his big bare brow. It always happened
that I turned away with a settled conviction from these unpeopled
expanses, which seemed to complete each other geographically and to
symbolise together Drayton Deane's want of voice, want of form. He
simply hadn't the art to use what he knew; he literally was incompetent
to take up the duty where Corvick had left it. I went still further--it
was the only glimpse of happiness I had. I made up my mind that the
duty didn't appeal to him. He wasn't interested, he didn't care. Yes, it
quite comforted me to believe him too stupid to have joy of the thing I
lacked. He was as stupid after as before, and that deepened for me the
golden glory in which the mystery was wrapped. I had of course however
to recollect that his wife might have imposed her conditions and
exactions. I had above all to recollect that with Vereker's death the
major incentive dropped. He was still there to be honoured by what might
be done--he was no longer there to give it his sanction. Who, alas, but
he had the authority?

Two children were born to the pair, but the second cost the mother her
life. After this calamity I seemed to see another ghost of a chance. I
jumped at it in thought, but I waited a certain time for manners, and
at last my opportunity arrived in a remunerative way. His wife had been
dead a year when I met Drayton Deane in the smoking-room of a small club
of which we both were members, but where for months--perhaps because
I rarely entered it--I had not seen him. The room was empty and the
occasion propitious. I deliberately offered him, to have done with
the matter for ever, that advantage for which I felt he had long been
looking.

"As an older acquaintance of your late wife's than even you were," I
began, "you must let me say to you something I have on my mind. I shall
be glad to make any terms with you that you see fit to name for the
information she had from George Corvick--the information, you know, that
he, poor fellow, in one of the happiest hours of his life, had straight
from Hugh