Stafford scarcely heard him.  He was thinking of his father’s loving foresight and care for his son’s future.  A pang of bereavement shot through him.

“Very wise,” said Mr. Falconer, grimly.  “Whatever happens, Lord Highcliffe is safe, high and dry above water mark.  Carefully invested, the capital sum may be made to produce an income of four thousand, or thereabouts.  Not too much for an earldom, but—­Ah, well, it might be so much worse.”

“The servants—­the small debts—­this house—­is there enough for them?” asked Stafford, after a pause.

Mr. Chaffinch waved his hand.

“No need to trouble about that, my lord.  There will be sufficient at the bank to pay such small claims.  Your lordship will keep the house on?”

Stafford looked up with a sudden energy.  “No,” he said; “not a moment longer than is necessary.  I shall return to my old rooms.”

“There is no occasion,” began Mr. Chaffinch.  “I need scarcely say that the bank will honour your lordship’s cheques for any amount.”

“Please get rid of this house as soon as possible,” said Stafford.  He rose as he spoke.  “You will remain to lunch?”

They murmured a negative, and Stafford begging to be excused, left the room, signing to Howard to follow him.  He did not mean it, but his manner, in the abstraction of his grief was as lordly as if he had inherited an earldom of five centuries.  When they had got back to the little darkened room in which he had sat since his father’s death, Stafford turned to Howard: 

“At what time and place is this meeting to-morrow, Howard?” he asked.

“At Gloucester House, Broad Street.  Four.”

Stafford nodded, and was lost in thought for a moment or two, then he said: 

“Howard, will you send my horses to Tattersall’s?  And the yacht to the agents, for sale?  There is nothing else, I think.  I used to have some diamond studs and rings, but I’ve lost them.  I was always careless.  Great Heaven!  When I think of the money I have spent, money that I would give my life for now!”

“But, my dear old chap, a hundred thousand pounds!  Four thousand a year—­it’s not too much for a man in your position, but there’s no need to sell your horses.”

Stafford laid his hand on Howard’s shoulder and looked into his eyes and laughed strangely; then his hands dropped and he turned away with a sigh.

“Leave me now, Howard,” he said, “I want to think—­to think.”

He sank into a chair, when Howard had gone, and tried to think of his future; but it was only the past that rose to his mind; and it was not altogether of his father that he thought, but of—­Ida.  In his sacrifice of himself, he had sacrificed her.  And Fate had punished him for his forced treachery.  He sat with his head in his hands, for hours, recalling those eyes, and yes, kissed her sweet lips.  God, what a bankrupt he was!  His father, his sweetheart, his wealth—­all had been taken from him.