He paused in the act of raising his glass to his lips, and looked over the silent company as though seeking a convivial companion.  His son was still staring out of the window.  The little stockbroker, seated on the sofa beside his large wife, made a deprecating movement of his eyebrows, as though entreating not to be asked.  Austin’s cold glance roved to Dr. Ravenshaw.

“Doctor,” he said, “let me give you a whisky-and-soda.”

Doctor Ravenshaw shook his head.  “I have a patient to visit before dark,” he said, “a lady.  I do not care to carry the smell of spirits into a sick-room.”

“But this is a special occasion, Ravenshaw,” persisted the other.  “We do not restore a title every day.”

“Austin!” The voice of Mrs. Pendleton sounded from the sofa in shocked protest.

“What’s the matter?” said Austin, pausing in the act of pouring some whisky into a glass.

“It would be exceedingly improper to drink a toast at such a moment.”

“What’s the matter with the moment?”

“The day, then.  Just when we have buried poor Alice.”  Mrs. Pendleton had not seen her brother’s wife for ten years before her death, but she had no difficulty in bringing tears to her eyes at the recollection of her.  She dried her eyes with her handkerchief, and added in a different tone:  “I fancy Robert is coming.”

A heavy step was heard descending the stairs.  Austin drained his glass, and Dr. Ravenshaw adjusted his spectacles as Robert Turold entered the room.

CHAPTER III

With parchments and papers deep on the table before him, Robert Turold plunged into the history of his life’s task.  The long hand of the mantelpiece clock slipped with a stealthy movement past the twelve as he commenced, as though determined not to be taken by surprise, but to keep abreast of him.

An hour passed, but Robert Turold kept steadily on.  His hearers displayed symptoms of boredom like people detained in church beyond the usual time.  Humanity is interested in achievement, but not in the manner of its accomplishment.  And Robert’s brother and sister knew much of his story by heart.  It had formed the sole theme of his letters to them for many years past.  Mrs. Pendleton’s thoughts wandered to afternoon tea.  Her husband nodded with closed eyes, and recovered himself with convulsive starts.  Austin Turold fixed his glance on the ceiling, where a solitary fly was cleaning its wings with its legs.  From the window Charles Turold presented an immobile profile.  Only Dr. Ravenshaw seemed to listen with an interest which never flagged.

Yet it was a story well worth hearing, that record of indomitable pertinacity which had refused to be baulked by years or rebuffs.  Men have acquired titles more easily.  That was apparent as Robert Turold related the history of his long and patient investigation; of scents which had led nowhere; of threads which had broken in his hand; of fruitless burrowings into the graves of past generations.  These disappointments had lengthened the search, but they had never, baffled the searcher nor broken his faith.