racter, in spite of Brian's
reassuring words.

He pushed his plate and newspaper away from him impatiently; a frown
showed itself on his beautiful, low brows.

"What will he do for me? Anything definite, I wonder? Poor beggar, I'm
sorry for him, but my position has been decidedly improved since that
unlucky shot at Richard. Did he want him out of the way, I wonder? The
gloomy look with which he goes makes about one imagine that he did. What
a fool he must be!"

Hugo pushed back his chair and rose: a cynical smile curled his lips for
a moment, but it changed by degrees into an expression of somewhat
sullen discontent.

"I wish I could sleep at nights," he said, moving slowly towards the
window. "I've never been so wretchedly wakeful in all my life." Then he
gazed out into the garden, but without seeing much of the scene that he
gazed upon, for his thoughts were far away, and his whole soul was
possessed by fear of what Brian would do or say.

At eleven o'clock Brian made his way to his mother's dressing-room, an
apartment which, although bearing that name, was more like an ordinary
sitting-room than a dressing-room. He knocked, and was answered by his
mother's voice.

"Come in," she said. "Is it you, Brian?"

"Yes, it is I," Brian said, as he closed the door behind him.

He walked quietly to the hearth-rug, where he stood with one hand
resting on the mantelpiece. It was a convenient attitude, and one which
exposed him to no rebuffs. He was too wise to offer hand or cheek to his
mother by way of greeting.

Mrs. Luttrell was sitting on a sofa, with her back to the light. Brian
thought that she looked older and more worn; there were fresh wrinkles
upon her forehead, and marks of weeping and sleeplessness about her
eyes, but her figure was erect as ever, as rigidly upright as if her
backbone were made of iron. She was in the deepest possible mourning;
even the handkerchief that she held in her hand was edged with two or
three inches of black. Brian looked round for Angela; he had expected to
find her with his mother, but she was not there. The door into Mrs.
Luttrell's bed-room was partly open.

"How is Angela?" he asked.

"Angela is not well. Could you expect her to be well after the terrible
trial that has overtaken her?"

Brian winced. He could make no reply to such a question. Mrs. Luttrell
scored a triumph, and continued in her hard, incisive way:--

"She is probably as well as she can hope to be under