ations. 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