Sir Lucius was a medium-sized, slightly portly gentleman of fifty-eight, though he did not look his age, thanks to the correct life he led.  He had a military carriage, a rubicund face, a heavy mustache, keen, twinkling eyes, and a head of iron-gray hair.  He was a childless widower, and Victor Nevill, the son of his dead sister Elizabeth, was his nephew, and presumably his heir.  He had had another sister—­his favorite one—­but many years ago he had cast her out of his life.  He lived alone at his fine old place in Sussex, Priory Court, near to the sea and the downs.  When he was at home he found occupation in shooting and fishing, riding, cultivating hot-house fruits, and breeding horses and cattle.  These things he did to perfection, but his knowledge of art was not beyond criticism.  He was particularly fond of old masters, but he bought all sorts of pictures, and had a gallery full of them.  He made bad bargains sometimes, and was imposed upon by unscrupulous dealers.  That, however, was nobody’s business, as long as he himself was satisfied.

He cared nothing for London or for society, and seldom came up to town; but he liked to travel, and a portion of each year he invariably spent on the Continent or in more remote places.  He smoked Indian cheroots from choice—­he had once filled a civil position in Bombay for eighteen months—­and his favorite wine was port.  He was generous and kind-hearted, and believed that every young man must sow his crop of wild oats, and that he would be the better for it.  But there was another and a deeper side to his character.  In his sense of honor he was a counterpart of Colonel Newcome, and he had a vast amount of family pride; a sin against that he could neither forget nor forgive, and he was relentless to the offender.

It was twenty minutes to one when Victor Nevill mounted the stairs and opened his door, surprised to see that the gas was lighted in his rooms.  If he was unpleasantly startled by the sight of his visitor, he masked his feelings successfully.

“My dear uncle,” he cried, “I am delighted to see you!”

“You dog!” exclaimed Sir Lucius, with a beaming countenance.  “You night-bird!  Do you know that I have been here since ten o’clock?”

“I am awfully sorry, I assure you, sir.  If you had only dropped me a line or wired.  I have been dining with a friend in the suburbs, and the best train I could catch took me to Portland road.”

Possibly Sir Lucius did not believe this explanation.  He glanced keenly at his nephew, noting his flushed face and rumpled shirt-bosom, and a shadow of displeasure crossed his features.

“I hoped to spend a few quiet hours with you,” he said.  “I came to town this evening, and put up at Morley’s.  I am off to Norway in the morning, by a steamer that sails from the Thames, and from there I shall probably go to the Continent.  I have been feeling a little run down—­livery—­and my physician has advised a complete change of air.”