than alone; for Percy, my only
son, I tell you--by Heaven, there is not a morning I wake that I do not
dread to hear that he has done something to disgrace the name he bears.
Wilfred, if you've a mind to take it all back----"

He stretched out his hands with a gesture of renunciation, almost an
eager, anticipatory relief.

Mr. Clendon shook his head. "No," he said, resolutely, "you must
continue to bear the burden I have imposed upon you, Talbot; and I beg
you to believe me, fully and undoubtingly, that I shall never relieve
you of your responsibilities, which you have borne so well. Oh, of
course, I have watched. I know how admirably you have filled your place,
and where I should have failed. Fate, Providence knew better than I what
was best for me, for all of us, when it drove me out of the world."

"Tell me, why can't you tell me, why you disappeared?" demanded the
Marquess. "Surely you owe it to me!"

"No, I have buried the past," said Mr. Clendon. "Let it lie. But I will
tell you why I have forced myself to come to you--yes, forced myself,
Talbot, for I knew that it was better that I should remain as one dead."

"Yes, tell me," said the Marquess, with feverish eagerness. "If there is
anything I can do, if you have decided to stick to your resolution, if
there is nothing I can say that will persuade you to come forward----"

"There is nothing," Mr. Clendon assured him calmly.

The Marquess sighed heavily. "Then you must let me--how shall I put
it?--provide for you, take care of your future. You must want money. Oh,
it's absurd; it drives me mad! To think that nearly every penny I
possess is yours. But tell me what I'm to do, Wilfred."

"Nothing for me--that is directly," said Mr. Clendon. "Don't say any
more about myself. I am touched by your generosity--yes, generosity,
Talbot; for I feel that you have every reason, every right, to turn upon
me and upbraid me for presenting myself after all this time, for
harrowing you with the knowledge of my existence. You can do nothing for
me in the way of money. I have all I need. I have grown so used to the
poverty of my surroundings that, if I were raised out of them I should
feel like the prisoner released from the Bastille, and weep for my cell
and the prison rations. But you can do something for someone in whom I
am interested."

The Marquess looked up, with something like a gleam of apprehension.

"Someone belonging to you? Your son--daughter?"

Mr. Clendon