Mr. Stretton took the envelope and opened it without a word. He looked at the sheet, saw that one only was there, and then replied.

"I am much obliged to you for your kindness. Yes, this is part of the letter that I lost."

"Only part? Indeed, I am sorry for that," said Hugo, with every appearance of genuine interest. "I was first attracted towards it because it looked like a foreign letter, and I saw that it was written in Italian. On taking it up, I observed that it was addressed to a Mr.

Stretton, and I could think of no other Mr. Stretton in the neighbourhood but yourself."

"I am much obliged to you," Mr. Stretton repeated.

"I hope you will find the rest of the letter," said Hugo, with rather a mocking look in his beautiful eyes. "It is awkward sometimes to drop one's correspondence. I need hardly say that it was safe in my hands----"

"I am sure of that," said Mr. Stretton, mechanically.

"But others might have found it--and read it. I hope it was not an important letter."

"I hope not," Mr. Stretton answered, recovering himself a little; "but the fact is that I had read only the first page or two when I was interrupted, and I must have dropped it instead of putting it into my pocket."

"That was unfortunate," said Hugo. "I hope it contained no very important communication. Good morning, Mr. Stretton; good morning to you," he added, with a smile for the children. "I must not interrupt you any longer."

He withdrew, with a feeling of contemptuous wonder at the carelessness of a man who could lose a letter that he had never read. It was not the kind of carelessness that he practised.

He did not leave the house without encountering Mrs. Heron and Kitty. He was easily persuaded to stay for a little time. It cost him no effort to make himself agreeable. He was like one of those sleek-coated animals of the panther tribe, sufficiently tamed or tameable to like caresses; and very few people recognised the latent ferocity that lay beneath the velvet softness of those dreamy eyes. He could bask in the sunshine like a cat; but he was only half-tamed after all.

Elizabeth distrusted him; Kitty thought her unjust, and therefore acted as though she liked him better than she really did. She was a child still in her love of mischief, and she soon found a sort of pleasure in alternately vexing and pleasing her new admirer. But she was not in earnest. What did it matter to her if Hugo Luttrell's eyes glowed when she spoke a kind word to him, or his brow grew black as thunder if she neglected him for someone else? It never occurred to her to question whether it was wise to trifle with passions which might be of truly Southern vehemence and intensity.

Hugo did not leave the house without making--or thinking that he had made--a discovery. Mr. Stretton did not appear at luncheon, but Hugo caught sight of him afterwards in the garden--with Elizabeth. To Hugo's mind, the very attitude assumed by the tutor in speaking to Miss Murray was a revelation. He was as sure as he was of his own existence that Mr.

Stretton was "in love." Whether the affection was returned by Miss Murray or not he could not feel so sure.

He made his way, after his visit to the Herons, to Mr. Colquhoun's office, and was fortunate in finding that gentleman at home.

"Well, Hugo, and how are you?" asked the lawyer, who did not regard Mrs.

Luttrell's nephew with any particular degree of favour. "What brings you to this part of the world again?"

"My aunt's invitation," said Hugo.

"Ah, yes; your aunt has a hankering after anybody of the name of Luttrell, at present. It won't last. Don't trust to it, Hugo."

"I cannot say that I know what you mean, Mr. Colquhoun. I suppose I am at liberty to accept my aunt's repeated and pressing invitation? I came here to ask you a question. I will not trespass on your time longer than I can help."

"Ask away, lad," said the old lawyer, not much impressed by Hugo's stateliness of demeanour. "Ask away. You'll get no lies, at any rate.

And what is it you're wanting now?"

"Have you any reason to suppose that my cousin Brian is not dead?"

"No," said Mr. Colquhoun, shortly. "I haven't. I wish I had. Have you?"

Without replying to this question, Hugo asked another.

"You have no reason to think that there is any other man who would call himself by that name?"

"No," said Mr. Colquhoun again, "I haven't. And I don't wish I had. But have you?"

"Yes," said Hugo.

"Come, come, come," said the lawyer, restlessly; "you are joking, young man. Don't carry a joke too far. What do you mean?"

Again Hugo replied by a question. "Did you ever hear of a place called San Stefano?" he said, gently.

Old Mr. Colquhoun bounded in his seat. "Good God!" he said, although he was not a man given to the use of such ejaculations. And then he stared fixedly at Hugo.

"I can't think how it has been kept quiet so long," said Hugo, tentatively. He was feeling his way. But this remark roused Mr.

Colquhoun's ire.

"Kept quiet? There was nothing to be kept quiet. Nothing except Mrs.

Luttrell's own delusion on the subject; nobody wanted it to be known that she was as mad as a March hare on the subject. The nurse was as honest as the day. I saw her and questioned her myself."

"But my aunt never believed----"

"She never believed Brian to be her son. So much I may tell you without any breach of confidence, now that they are both in their graves, poor lads!" And then Mr. Colquhoun launched out upon the story of Mrs.

Luttrell's illness and (so-called) delusion, to all of which Hugo listened with serious attention. But at the close of the narrative, the lawyer remembered Hugo's opening question. "And how did you come to know anything about it?" he said.

Hugo's answer was ready. "I met a queer sort of man in the town this morning who was making inquiries that set me on the alert. I got hold of him--walked along the road with him for some distance--and heard a long story. He was a priest, I think--sent from San Stefano to investigate. I got a good deal out of him."

"Eh?" said Mr. Colquhoun, slowly. "And where might he be staying, yon priest?"

"Didn't ask," replied Hugo. "I told him to come to you for information.

So you can look out. There's something in the wind, I'm sure. I thought you might have heard of it. Thank you for your readiness to enlighten me, Mr. Colquhoun. I've learnt a good deal to-day. Good morning."

"Now what did he mean by that?" said the lawyer, when he was left alone.

"It's hard to tell when he's telling the truth and when he's lying just for the pleasure of it, so to speak. As for his priest--I'm not so sure that I believe in his priest. I'll send down to the hotel and inquire."

He sent to every hotel in the place, and from every hotel he received the same answer. They had no foreign visitor, and had had none for the last three weeks. There was apparently not a priest in the place. "It'll just be one of Master Hugo's lies," said Mr. Colquhoun, grimly. "There's a rod in pickle for that young man one of these days, and I should like well to have the applying of it to his shoulders. He's an awful scamp, is Hugo."

There was a triumphant smile upon Hugo's face as he rode away from the lawyer's office. Twice in that day had his generalship been successful, and his success disposed him to think rather meanly of his fellow-creatures' intellects. It was surely very easy, and decidedly pleasant, to outwit one's neighbours! He had made both Brian and Mr.

Colquhoun give him information which they would have certainly withheld had they known the object for which it had been asked. He was proud of his own dexterity.

On his arrival at Netherglen he found that Mrs. Luttrell and Angela had gone for a drive. He was glad of it. He wanted a little time to himself in Brian's old room. He had already noticed that an old-fashioned davenport which stood in this room had never been emptied of its contents, and in this davenport he found two or three papers which were of service to him. He took them away to his bed-room, where he practised a certain kind of handwriting for two or three hours with tolerable success. He tried it again after dinner, when everybody was in bed, and he tried it again next day. It was rather a difficult hand to imitate well, but he was not easily discouraged.

"I am afraid, dear aunt, that I must run up to town for a day or two,"

he said to Mrs. Luttrell that evening, with engaging frankness. "I have business to transact. But I will be back in three or four days at most, if you will permit me."

"Do as you please, Hugo," said Mrs. Luttrell, in her stoniest manner. "I have no wish to impose any kind of trammels upon you."

"Dear Aunt Margaret, the only trammels that you impose are those of love!" said Hugo, in his silkiest undertone.

Angela looked up. For the moment she was puzzled. To her, Hugo's speech sounded insincere. But the glance of the eye that she encountered was so caressing, the curves of his mouth were so sweetly infantine, that she accused herself of harsh judgment, and remembered Hugo's foreign blood and Continental training, which had given him the habit, she supposed, of saying "pretty things." She could not doubt his sincerity when she looked at the peach-like bloom of that oval face, the impenetrable softness of those velvet eyes. Hugo's physical beauty always stood him in good stead.

"You are an affectionate, warm-hearted boy, I believe, Hugo," said Mrs.

Luttrell. Then, after a short pause, she added, with no visible link of connection, "I have written instructions to Colquhoun. I expect him here to-morrow."