and I remember
it debarred 'both him and his heirs, forever.'"

"Poor Harold!" said Mr. Thornton, after a moment's silence; "he was
the elder son, was he not?"

"Yes, and his father's favorite. It broke the old man's heart to
disinherit him. He failed rapidly after that occurred, and he never
was the same towards Hugh. I always thought that accounted for
Hugh's selling the old place as he did; it had too many unpleasant
memories."

"Harold died soon after that unfortunate marriage, I believe."

"Yes; he learned too late the character of the woman he had married,
and after the death of their only child, he left her, and a few years
later was lost at sea."

"Well," continued Mr. Thornton, after a pause, "have you the remotest
idea as to who these possible claimants against the property may be?"

"Only the merest suspicion, as yet too vague even to mention; but I
think a day or two will probably enable me to determine whether I am
correct or not."

At that moment, Harry Scott, the private secretary, appeared, with a
message to the gentlemen from Hugh Mainwaring, to the effect that he
would like to have them join himself and Mr. Whitney in his library.

As they passed around to the southern entrance with the secretary,
they did not observe a closed carriage coming swiftly up the
driveway, nor a tall, slender man, with cadaverous features and
sharp, peering eyes, who alighted and hastily rang for admittance.
But two hours later, as Mr. Thornton was descending the winding
stairway in the main hall, he caught a glimpse of the strange
caller, just taking his departure. The stranger, hearing footsteps,
turned towards Mr. Thornton, and for an instant their eyes met.
There was a mutual recognition; astonishment and scorn were written
on Mr. Thornton's face, while the stranger cowed visibly and, with
a fawning, cringing bow, made as speedy an exit as possible.

At luncheon that day both Hugh Mainwaring and a number of his guests
seemed rather preoccupied, and the meal passed in unusual silence.
Mrs. LaGrange exerted herself to be particularly entertaining to Mr.
Whitney, but he, though courteously responding to her overtures, made
no effort to continue the conversation. Even the genial Mr. Thornton
was in so abstracted a mood that his daughter at last rallied him on
his appearance, whereupon he turned somewhat abruptly to his host
with the inquiry,--

"Are you personally acquainted with Richard Hobson?"

For an