“Let me be quite frank with you,” Mr. Fentolin murmured.  “My occupation of the Tower is one of these hobbies.  I love to sit there within a few yards of the sea and watch the tide come in.  I catch something of the spirit, I think, which caught your father, Mr. Hamel, and kept him a prisoner here.  In my small way I, too, paint while I am down there, paint and dream.  These things may not appeal to you, but you must remember that there are few things left to me in life, and that those, therefore, which I can make use of, are dear to me.  Gerald, you are silent to-night.  How is it that you say nothing?”

“I am tired, sir,” the boy answered quietly.

Mr. Fentolin nodded gravely.

“It is inexcusable of me,” he declared smoothly, “to have forgotten even for a moment.  My nephew, Mr. Hamel,” he went on, “had quite an exciting experience last night—­or rather a series of experiences.  He was first of all in a railway accident, and then, for the sake of a poor fellow who was with him and who was badly hurt, he motored back here in the grey hours of the morning and ran, they tell me, considerable risk of being drowned on the marshes.  A very wonderful and praiseworthy adventure, I consider it.  I trust that our friend up-stairs, when he recovers, will be properly grateful.”

Gerald rose to his feet precipitately.  The service of dinner was almost concluded, and he muttered something which sounded like an excuse.  Mr. Fentolin, however, stretched out his hand and motioned him to resume his seat.

“My dear Gerald!” he exclaimed reprovingly.  “You would leave us so abruptly?  Before your sister, too!  What will Mr. Hamel think of our country ways?  Pray resume your seat.”

For a moment the boy stood quite still, then he slowly subsided into his chair.  Mr. Fentolin passed around a decanter of wine which had been placed upon the table by the butler.  The servants had now left the room.

“You must excuse my nephew, if you please, Mr. Hamel,” he begged.  “Gerald has a boy’s curious aversion to praise in any form.  I am looking forward to hearing your verdict upon my port.  The collection of wine and pictures was a hobby of my grandfather’s, for which we, his descendants, can never be sufficiently grateful.”

Hamel praised his wine, as indeed he had every reason to, but for a few moments the smooth conversation of his host fell upon deaf ears.  He looked from the boy’s face, pale and wrinkled as though with some sort of suppressed pain, to the girl’s still, stony expression.  This was indeed a house of mysteries!  There was something here incomprehensible, some thing about the relations of these three and their knowledge of one another, utterly baffling.  It was the queerest household, surely, into which any stranger had ever been precipitated.

“The planting of trees and the laying down of port are two virtues in our ancestors which have never been properly appreciated,” Mr. Fentolin continued.  “Let us, at any rate, free ourselves from the reproach of ingratitude so far as regards my grandfather—­Gerald Fentolin—­to whom I believe we are indebted for this wine.  We will drink—­”