Lord Arranmore raised his eyebrows, but his face remained as the face of a Sphinx.  He sat still, and waited.

“On the occasion of my visit to you,” Brooks continued, “you may remember the presence of a certain Mr. Lacroix?  He is the author, I believe, of several books of travel in Western Canada, and has the reputation of knowing that part of the country exceedingly well.”

Brooks paused, but his visitor helped him in no way.  His face wore still its passive expression of languid inquiry.

“He spoke of his visit to you,” Brooks went on “in Canada, and he twice reiterated the fact that there was no other dwelling within fifty miles of you.  He said this upon his own authority, and upon the authority of his Indian guide.  Now it is only a few days ago since you spoke of my father as living for years within a few miles of you.”

Lord Arranmore nodded his head thoughtfully.

“Ah!  And you found the two statements, of course, irreconcilable.  Well, go on!”

Brooks found it difficult.  He was grasping a paperweight tightly in one hand, and he felt the rising colour burn his cheeks.

“I wrote to Mr. Lacroix,” he said.

“A perfectly natural thing to do,” Lord Arranmore remarked, smoothly.

And his answer is here!

“Suppose you read it to me,” Lord Arranmore suggested.

Brooks took up the letter and read it.

“Travellers’ club, December 10.

“Dear sir,

“Replying to your recent letter, I have not the slightest hesitation in reaffirming the statement to which you refer.  I am perfectly convinced that at the time of my visit to Lord Arranmore on the bank of Lake Quo, there was no Englishman or dwelling-place of any sort within a radius of fifty miles.  The information which you have received is palpably erroneous.

“Why not refer to Lord Arranmore himself?  He would certainly confirm what I say, and finally dispose of the matter.

“Yours sincerely,

“Victor Lacroix.”

“A very interesting letter,” Lord Arranmore remarked.  “Well?”

Brooks crumpled the letter up and flung it into the waste-paper basket.

“Lord Arranmore,” he said, “I made this inquiry behind your back, and in a sense I am ashamed of having done so.  Yet I beg you to put yourself in my position.  You must admit that my father’s disappearance from the world was a little extraordinary.  He was a man whose life was more than exemplary—­it was saintly.  For year after year he worked in the police-courts amongst the criminal classes.  His whole life was one long record of splendid devotion.  His health at last breaks down, and he is sent by his friends for a voyage to Australia.  He never returns.  Years afterwards his papers and particulars of his death are sent home from one of the loneliest spots in the Empire.  A few weeks ago you found me out and told me of his last days.  You see what I must believe.  That he wilfully deserted his wife and son—­myself.  That he went into lonely and inexplicable solitude for no apparent or possible reason.  That he misused the money subscribed by his friends in order that he might take this trip to Australia.  Was ever anything more irreconcilable?”