“Oh, but your book is getting on!”

“Yes, yes; so it is.  A capital book it’ll be, too; a breezy book—­ smelling of the sea-foam!  But, after all, that’s only pen-work.  I have a notion that I was meant for active life, after all.  If I had remained in the Navy, I should have been high up by now.  I should have been hoping for war, I dare say.  What possibilities there are in every man!”

He grew silent, and Lilian, her face shadowed once more, conversed with her own thoughts.

CHAPTER II

In a room in the west of London—­a room full of pictures and brie-a-brac, of quaint and luxurious furniture, with volumes abundant, with a piano in a shadowed corner, a violin and a mandoline laid carelessly aside—­two men sat facing each other, their looks expressive of anything but mutual confidence.  The one (he wore an overcoat, and had muddy boots) was past middle age, bald, round-shouldered, dressed like a country gentleman; upon his knees lay a small hand-bag, which he seemed about to open, He leaned forward with a face of stern reproach, and put a short, sharp question: 

“Then why haven’t I heard from you since my nephew’s death?”

The other was not ready with a reply.  Younger, and more fashionably attired, he had assumed a lounging attitude which seemed natural to him, though it served also to indicate a mood of resentful superiority.  His figure was slight, and not ungraceful; his features —­pale, thin, with heavy nose, high forehead—­were intellectual and noteworthy, but lacked charm.

“I have been abroad till quite recently,” he said at length, his fine accent contrasting with that of the questioner, which had a provincial note.  “Why did you expect me to communicate with you?”

“Don’t disgrace yourself by speaking in that way, Mr. Glazzard!” exclaimed the other, his voice uncertain with strong, angry feeling.  “You know quite well why I have come here, and why you ought to have seen me long ago!”

Thereupon he opened the bag and took out a manuscript-book.

“I found this only the other day among Harry’s odds and ends.  It’s a diary that he kept.  Will you explain to me the meaning of this entry, dated in June of last year:  ’Lent E. G. a hundred pounds’?”

Glazzard made no answer, but his self-command was not sufficient to check a quivering of the lips.

“There can be no doubt who these initials refer to.  Throughout, ever since my nephew’s intimacy with you began, you are mentioned here as ‘E.  G.’  Please to explain another entry, dated August:  ’Lent E. G. two hundred pounds.’  And then again, February of this year:  ’Lent E. G. a hundred and fifty pounds’—­and yet again, three months later:  ’Lent E. G. a hundred pounds’—­what is the meaning of all this?”

“The meaning, Mr. Charnock,” replied Glazzard, “is indisputable.”

“You astound me!” cried the elder man, shutting up the diary and straightening himself to an attitude of indignation.  “Am I to understand, then, that this is the reason why Harry left no money?  You mean to say you have allowed his relatives to believe that he had wasted a large sum, whilst they supposed that he was studying soberly in London”——­