ou mean?" he said.

"Is she a ward of your father's? Is she a relation of yours?"

"Yes, of course, she is," said Percival, rather resentfully. "She is a
cousin. Let me see. Her father, Gordon Murray, was my mother's brother.
She is my first cousin. And Cinderella in general to the household," he
added, grimly.

"Oh, Gordon Murray was her father? So I supposed. Then if poor Richard
Luttrell had not died I suppose she would have been a sort of connection
of my sister's. I remember Angela wondered whether Gordon Murray had
left any family."

"Why?"

"Why? You know the degree of relationship and the terms of the will made
by Mrs. Luttrell's father, don't you?"

"Not I."

"Gordon Murray--this Miss Murray's father--was next heir after the two
Luttrells, if they died childless. Of course, Brian is still living; but
if he died, Miss Murray would inherit, I understand."

"There's not much chance," said Percival, lightly.

"Not much," responded Vivian.

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. The landlady, with many
apologies, brought them a telegram which had been left at the house
during their absence, and which she had forgotten to deliver. It was
addressed to Vivian, who tore it open, read it twice, and then passed it
on to Percival without a word.

It was from Angela Vivian, and contained these words only--

"Brian Luttrell is dead."

CHAPTER X.

BROTHER DINO.

When Brian Luttrell left England he had no very clear idea of the places
that he meant to visit, or the things that he wished to do. He wished
only to leave old associations behind him--to forget, and, if possible
to be forgotten.

He was conscious of a curious lack of interest in life; it seemed to him
as though the very springs of his being were dried up at their source.
As a matter of fact, he was thoroughly out of health, as well as out of
spirits; he had been over-working himself in London, and was scarcely
out of the doctor's hands before he went to Scotland; then the shock of
his brother's death and the harshness of his mother toward him had
contributed their share to the utter disorganisation of his faculties.
In short, Brian was not himself at all; it might even be said that he
was out of his right mind. He had attacks of headache, generally
terminating in a kind of stupor rather than sleep, during which he could
scarcely be held responsible for the things he said or did. At other
times, a feverish restlessness came upon h