“There is no need, George, for you to continue,” and then, fixing his glittering eye on Philip:  “it is very melancholy for me, having only one son, to know him to be such a brute, such a bearer of false witness, such an impostor as you are.  Do you know that I have just seen Mr. Bellamy, the head clerk at the bank, and inquired if he knew anything of what happened about that ten pounds, and do you know what he told me?”

“No, I don’t, and I don’t want to.”

“But I really must beg your attention:  he told me that the day following the fair your cousin George came to the bank with ten pounds, and told him how you had spent the ten pounds I gave you to pay in, and that he brought the money, his own savings, to replace what you had gambled away; and Bellamy added that, under all the circumstances, he did not feel justified in placing it to my credit.  What have you to say to that?”

“What have I to say?  I have to say that I don’t believe a word of it.  If George had meant to do me a good turn he would have paid the money in and said nothing to Bellamy about it.  Why won’t you trust me a little more, father?  I tell you that you are turning me into a scoundrel.  I am being twisted up into a net of lies till I am obliged to lie myself to keep clear of ruin.  I know what this sneak is at; he wants to work you into cutting me out of the property which should be mine by right.  He knows your weaknesses——­”

“My weaknesses, sir—­my weaknesses!” thundered his father, striking his gold-headed cane on to the stones; “what do you mean by that?”

“Hush, uncle, he meant nothing,” broke in George.

“Meant nothing!  Then for an idle speech it is one that may cost him dear.  Look you here, Philip Caresfoot, I know very well that our family has been quite as remarkable for its vices as its virtues, but for the last two hundred and fifty years we have been gentlemen, and you are not a gentleman; we have not been thieves, and you have proved yourself a thief; we have spoken the truth, and you are, what you are so fond of calling your cousin, who is worth two of you, a liar.  Now listen.  However imperious I may have grown in my old age, I can still respect the man who thwarts me even though I hate him; but I despise the man who deceives me, as I despise you, my dear son Philip—­and I tell you this, and I beg you to lay it to heart, that if ever again I find that you have deceived me, by Heaven I will disinherit you in favour of—­oh, oh!” and the old man fell back against the grey wall, pressing his hands to his breast and with the cold perspiration starting on to his pallid countenance.

Both the lads sprang forward, but before they reached him he had recovered himself.

“It is nothing,” he said, in his ordinary gentle voice, “a trifling indisposition.  I wish you both good morning, and beg you to bear my words in mind.”

When he was fairly gone, George came up to his cousin and laid his hand upon his arm.