“It is not for me to question your knowledge—­your great knowledge—­of English peerage law, Robert,” pursued Mr. Pendleton with a kind of timid persistence.  “But I brought a book down with me in the train in which I remember reading that the right of a single daughter to succeed to a barony by writ had been well established by the Clifton case and several others.  I am not precisely aware what the Clifton case is, but I’ve no doubt that you are well versed in the particulars of it.  As you have no son your daughter has priority of claim over your brother and his son.  From what you say I can see that I must be quite wrong, but I’d be glad if you would explain to me.”

“You have stated the law accurately enough,” said Robert Turold, “but my daughter does not succeed to the title.”

“Why not?”

Embarrassment, perceptible as a cloud, deepened on Robert Turold’s face.  He regained his self-control with an effort.

“There was an informality in my marriage,” said he at last.  “My daughter’s birth was irregular.”

“Do you mean that she is illegitimate?” asked Dr. Ravenshaw.

Robert Turold inclined his head.  “Yes,” he said.

At this admission his sister bounced from the sofa with a startled cry.  “So that was why there was no name plate on the coffin,” she exclaimed.  “Oh, Robert, what a terrible thing—­what a disgrace!”

“Spare me your protests until you have heard the explanation,” Robert coldly rejoined.  “She”—­he pointed a hand in the direction of the churchyard—­“was married before she met me.  She kept the fact from me.  It was apparently a secret passage in her life.  During our long association together she gave no hint of it.  She confessed the truth on her deathbed.  In justice to her memory let me say that she believed her husband dead.”

Robert Turold told this with unmoved face in barest outline—­etched in dry-point, as it were—­leaving his hearers to fill in the picture of the unhappy woman who had gone through life tormented by the twin demons of conscience and fear, which had overtaken her and brought her down before she could reach the safe shelter of the grave.

Mrs. Pendleton, whose robust mind had scant patience with the policy of cowardice which dictates death-bed confessions, regretted that Alice, having remained silent so long, had not kept silence altogether.

“You do not intend to make this scandal public, Robert?” she said anxiously.

“I am compelled to do so,” was the gloomy response.

“Is it necessary?” she pleaded.  “Cannot the story be kept quiet—­if not for Alice’s sake, at least for Sisily’s?  You must consider her above all things.  She is your daughter, your only child.”

“I agree with Aunt,” said Charles Turold.  He rose from the window-seat and approached the table.  “Sisily must be your first consideration,” he said, looking at Robert Turold.

“This has nothing to do with you, Charles,” interposed Austin hastily.