David sat down by his side.

“Forgive me, old chap,” continued Robert.  “It broke me up to see that you were happy after all your troubles.  You are engaged to a nice girl; Alan is dead; I am the only unlucky member of the family.”

The man was talking quite sincerely.  He even envied his murdered cousin.  Nothing in his words, his suspicious mode of announcing his presence, the vague doubts that shadowed his past career, puzzled Brett so greatly as that chance phrase.

The ladies came back, laden with good things from the kitchen, which they insisted on carrying themselves, much to the astonishment of the servants.

All women are born actresses.  Their behaviour before the domestics left the impression that some huge joke was toward in the library.

The tactful barrister drew Hume and Helen outside to discuss immediate arrangements.  David promised faithfully to return from the rectory in fifteen minutes, and Brett re-entered the library.

Robert Hume-Frazer gave evidence of his semi-starvation.  He tried to disguise his eagerness, but in vain.  Biscuits, sandwiches, and soup vanished rapidly, until Margaret suggested a further supply.

“No, Rita,” said her cousin; “I have fasted too often on the Pampas not to know the folly of eating too heartily.  I will be all right now, especially when Mr. Brett produces the whisky he spoke about.”

The barrister brought a decanter from the dining-room.  The stranger was still an enigma.  He placed bottle and glass on the table, wondering to what extent the man would help himself.

The quantity was small and well diluted.  So this member of the family was not a drunkard.

“How did you come to be in such a state?” asked Margaret nervously.  “It is hardly six months since I sent you L500; not a very large sum, I admit, but all you asked me for, and more than enough to live on for a much longer period.”

Robert laughed pleasantly.  It was the first token of returning confidence.  He reached for a cigar, and sought Margaret’s permission to smoke.

“My dear girl,” he answered, “I am really a very unfortunate person.  I own a hundred thousand acres of the best land in South America, and I have been in England nearly two years trying to raise capital to develop it.  If I owned a salted reef or an American brewery I could have got the money for the asking.  Because my stock-raising proposition is a sound paying concern, requiring a delay of at least three years before a penny of profit can be realised, I have worn my boots out in climbing up and down office stairs to no purpose.  Out of your L500, nearly L400 went out at once to pay arrears of Government taxation to save my property.  Of the remaining hundred I spent fifty in a fortnight on dinners and suppers given to a gang of top-hatted scoundrels, who, I found subsequently, were not worth a red cent.  They hoped to fleece me in some way, and their very association discredited me in the eyes of one or two honest men.  Oh, I have had a bad time of it, I can assure you!”