to do with the gentleman on the night in question.  If this be so, he absolutely lied.  A man who would lie on such an occasion, knowing himself to have been guilty of having beaten the man in such a way as to have probably caused his death,—­for he had left him for dead under the railings in a London street and in the midnight hour,—­and would positively assert to the gentleman’s brother that he had not seen the gentleman on the night in question, when he had every reason to believe that he had killed him,—­a deed which might or might not be murder,—­is not fit to be recognized as my heir.”

There were other sentences equally long and equally complicated, in all of which Mr. Prosper strove to tell the story with tragic effect, but all of which had reference to the same transaction.  He said nothing as to the ultimate destination of the property, nor of his own proposed marriage.  Should he have a son, that son would, of course, have the property.  Should there be no son, Harry must have it, even though his conduct might have been ever so abominable.  To prevent this outrage on society, his marriage,—­with its ordinary results,—­would be the only step.  Of that he need say nothing.  But the two hundred and fifty pounds would not be paid after the Christmas quarter, and he must decline for the future the honor of receiving Mr. Henry Annesley at the Hall.

Harry, when he had read it all, began to storm with anger.  The man, as he truly observed, had grossly insulted him.  Mr. Prosper had called him a liar and had hinted that he was a murderer.  “You can do nothing to him,” his father said.  “He is your uncle, and you have eaten his bread.”

“I can’t call him out and fight him.”

“You must let it alone.”

“I can make my way into the house and see him.”

“I don’t think you can do that.  You will find it difficult to get beyond the front-door, and I would advise you to abandon all such ideas.  What can you say to him?”

“It is false!”

“What is false?  Though in essence it is false, in words it is true.  You did deny that you had seen him.”

“I forget what passed.  Augustus Scarborough endeavored to pump me about his brother, and I did not choose to be pumped.  As far as I can ascertain now, it is he that is the liar.  He saw his brother after the affair with me.”

“Has he denied it?”

“Practically he denies it by asking me the question.  He asked me with the ostensible object of finding out what had become of his brother when he himself knew what had become of him.”

“But you can’t prove it.  He positively says that you did deny having seen him on the night in question, I am not speaking of Augustus Scarborough, but of your uncle.  What he says is true, and you had better leave him alone.  Take other steps for driving the real truth into his brain.”

“What steps can be taken with such a fool?”

“Write your own account of the transaction, so that he shall read it.  Let your mother have it.  I suppose he will see your mother.”