Therefore, full of bitter regrets at being thus compelled to renounce the stress and storm of political life which he loved so well, Sir Henry Heyburn had gone into strict retirement at Glencardine, his beautiful old Perthshire home, visiting London but very seldom.

He was essentially a man of mystery.  Even in the days of his universal popularity the source of his vast wealth was unknown.  His father, the tenth Baronet, had been sadly impoverished by the depreciation of agricultural property in Lincolnshire, and had ended his days in the genteel quietude of the Albany.  But Sir Henry, without betraying to the world his methods, had in fifteen years amassed a fortune which people guessed must be considerably over a million sterling.

From a life of strenuous activity he had, in one single hour, been doomed to one of loneliness and inactivity.  His friends sympathised, as indeed the whole British public had done; but in a month the tragic affair and its attendant mysterious gossip had been forgotten, as in truth had the very name of Sir Henry Heyburn, whom the Prime Minister, though his political opponent, had one night designated in the House as “one of the most brilliant and talented young men who has ever sat upon the Opposition benches.”

In his declining years the life of this man was a pitiful tragedy, his filmy eyes sightless, his thin white fingers ever eager and nervous, his hours full of deep thought and silent immobility.  To him, what was the benefit of that beautiful Perthshire castle which he had purchased from Lord Strathavon a year before his compulsory retirement?  What was the use of the old ancestral manor near Caistor in Lincolnshire, or the town-house in Park Street, the snug hunting-box at Melton, or the beautiful palm-shaded, flower-embowered villa overlooking the blue southern sea at San Remo?  He remembered them all.  He had misty visions of their splendour and their luxury; but since his blindness he had seldom, if ever, entered them.  That big library up in Scotland in which he now sat was the room he preferred; and with his daughter Gabrielle to bear him company, to smooth his brow with her soft hand, to chatter and to gossip, he wished for no other companion.  His life was of the past, a meteor that had flashed and had vanished for ever.

“Tell me, child, what is troubling you?” he was asking in a calm, kind voice, as he still held the girl’s hand in his.  The sweet scent of the roses from the garden beyond filled the room.

A smart footman in livery opened the door at that moment, asking, “Stokes has just returned with the car from Perth, Sir Henry, and asks if you want him further at present.”

“No,” replied his blind master.  “Has he brought back her ladyship?”

“Yes, Sir Henry,” replied the man.  “I believe he is taking her to the ball over at Connachan to-night.”

“Oh, yes, of course.  How foolish I am!  I quite forgot,” said the Baronet with a slight sigh.  “Very well, Hill.”