Stafford looked his thanks.

“No, I could not have helped them,” he said.  “No one knew less of my poor father’s affairs than I, no one is less capable of dealing with them than I. Mr. Falconer will know what to do.  It is very good of him to come to my assistance.  I have scarcely seen him; I have not seen anyone but you.”

“And Maude?” said Howard, interrogatively.

“No,” said Stafford, his brows drawn together.  “I have not seen her.  She has been ill—­”

“Yes,” said Howard, in a low voice.  “She is prostrated by the shock, poor girl!  You will go to her as soon as she is able to leave her room?”

“Yes, of course,” said Stafford, very gravely and wearily.

There was a knock at the door, and the footman, in his mourning livery, came in and said, solemnly: 

“Mr. Falconer would like to know if you will see him, my lord?”

A frown crossed Stafford’s pale face at the “my lord.”  It sounded strange and mockingly in his ears.

“I will come at once,” he said.  “Come with me, Howard.”

They went to the library, and the three men who were sitting there before a mass of papers rose to receive him; Falconer with a face as if it were carved out of wood; Murray with anxious brow; the lawyer with a grave and solemn countenance, and sharp, alert eyes.  Stafford waved them to their seats and took a chair at the table, and Falconer, with a straight underlip, and eyes half concealed by their thick lids, spoke for the others.

“Very sorry we cannot leave you in peace for a little longer, Lord Highcliffe,” he said.  “But I am quite sure you would have blamed us had we done so.  We have been going into your father’s affairs, and I very much regret that we cannot give you a favourable report of them.  As you know the will, which Mr. Chaffinch,” he nodded at the lawyer, “read this morning, leaves you everything, and names Mr. Chaffinch and Mr. Murray here executors.  That’s all very proper and satisfactory as it goes, but, unfortunately, we find that there is no estate.”  Murray, the secretary, passed his hand over his wrinkled forehead and sighed, as if he himself had made away with the vast sum of money, and the lawyer frowned and shuffled the papers before him.  Stafford sat with his hands clasped on the table, his eyes fixed on Falconer’s impassive face.

“Your father’s immense fortune was wholly embarked in this last business,” continued Mr. Falconer; “he believed in it and staked everything on it.  A very large number of the shares were held by him.  They are down to nothing to-day; it is very unlikely that they will recover; it is possible that they never may; and if they should it would be too late, for the shares your father held will, of course, go to meet the claims—­and they are heavy—­on the estate.  I don’t know whether I make myself understood:  I am aware that you are not a business man.”

Stafford inclined his head.