e gate where the moor road ended. The mourners
alighted and entered the gate. Their approach was observed from within,
for as they neared the house the front door was opened by an elderly
man-servant with a brown and hawk-beaked face.

Walking rapidly ahead Robert Turold led the way into a front sitting-room
lighted by a window overlooking the sea. There was an air of purpose in
his movements, but an appearance of strain in his careworn face and
twitching lips. He glanced at the others in a preoccupied way, but started
perceptibly as his eye fell upon his daughter.

"There is no need for you to remain, Sisily," he said in a harsh dry
voice.

Sisily turned away without speaking. Her cousin Charles jumped up to open
the door, and the two exchanged a glance as she went out. The young man
then returned to his seat near the window. Robert Turold was speaking
emphatically to Dr. Ravenshaw, answering some objection which the doctor
had raised.

"... No, no, Ravenshaw--I want you to be present. You will oblige me by
remaining. I will go upstairs and get the documents. I shall not keep you
long. Thalassa, serve refreshments."

He left the room quickly, as though to avoid further argument. The elderly
serving-man busied himself by setting out decanters and glasses, then went
out like one who considered his duty done, leaving the company to wait on
themselves.

CHAPTER II

The group in the room sat in silence with an air of stiff expectation. The
members of the family knew they were not assembled to pay respect to the
memory of the woman who had just been buried. Her husband had regarded her
as a drag upon him, and did not consider her removal an occasion for the
display of hypocritical grief. Rather was it to be regarded as an act of
timely intervention on the part of Death, who for once had not acted as
marplot in human affairs.

They were there to listen to the story of the triumph of the head of the
family, Robert Turold. Most families have some common source of interest
and pride. It may be a famous son, a renowned ancestor, a faded heirloom,
even a musical daughter. The pride of the Turold family rested on the
belief that they were of noble blood--the lineal inheritors of a great
English title which had fallen into abeyance hundreds of years before.

Robert Turold had not been content to boast of his nobility and die a
commoner like his father and grandfather before him. His intense pride
demanded more tha