“What?”

“I must kill you, you duffer!  Do you think my father would return to England without thanking the man who was kind to his dear lad?  And you would give the whole snap away.  Yes; I’ll call upon him as Cartwright, the administrator of the late Tudor Crisp’s estate.  If it were not for that confounded grave and marble cross, I could fix him in ten minutes.  Don’t frown.  I tell you, ‘Bishop,’ you’re not half the fellow you were.”

“Perhaps not,” replied his reverence humbly.

But when Dick was alone he muttered to himself:  “Now what the deuce did the governor mean by a curious change in his fortunes?”

* * * * *

The Rev. George Carteret was sitting at ease in his comfortable rooms at the Acropolis Hotel.  The luxury of them was new to him, yet not unpleasing after many years of rigorous self-denial and poverty.  It seemed strange, however, that in the evening of life riches should have come to him—­riches from a distant kinsman who, living, had hardly noticed the obscure scholar and parson.  Five thousand pounds a year was fabulous wealth to a man whose income heretofore had numbered as many hundreds.  And—­alas! his son was dead.  Not that the parson loved his daughters the less because they were girls, but as the cadet of an ancient family he had a Tory squire’s prejudice in favour of a Salique Law.  With the thousands went a charming grange in the north country and many fat acres which should of right be transmitted to a male Carteret.  If—­futile thought—­Dick had only been spared!

Thus reflecting, the bellboy brought him a card.  The parson placed his glasses upon a fine aquiline nose.

“Ahem!  Mr.—­er—­Cartwright.  The name is not familiar to me, but I’ll see the gentleman.”

And so, after many years, father and son met as strangers.  Dick fluently explained the nature of his errand.  Mr. Carteret’s letter had been given to him as the administrator of the late Mr. Tudor Crisp’s estate.  He happened to be in San Francisco, and, seeing Mr. Carteret’s name in the morning paper, had ventured to call.

“And you, sir,” said the father softly, “did you know my son?”

Dick admitted that he had known himself—­slightly.

“A friend, perhaps?  You are an Englishman.”  Dick pulled his beard.

“Ah!” sighed the father, “I understand.  My poor lad was not one, I fear, whom anyone would hasten to call a friend.  But if I’m not trespassing too much upon your time and kindness, tell me what you can of him.  What good, I mean.”

Dick kept on pulling his beard.

“Was there no good?” said the father, very sorrowfully.  “His friend, Mr. Crisp, wrote kindly of him.  He said Dick had no enemies but himself.”

Dick was sensible that his task was proving harder than he had expected.  He could not twist his tongue to lie about himself.  Men are strangely inconsistent.  Dick had prepared other lies, a sackful of them; and he knew that a few extra ones would make no difference to him, and be as balm to the questioning spirit opposite; yet he dared not speak good of the man whom he counted rotten to the core.  The parson sighed and pressed the matter no further.  He desired, he said, to see Dick’s grave.  Then he hoped to return to England.