Dr. Derwent was, in a sense, a self-made man; in youth he had gone through a hard struggle, and but for his academic successes he could not have completed the course of medical training.  Twenty years of very successful practice had made him independent, and a mechanical invention—­which he had patented—­an ingenuity of which he thought nothing till some friend insisted on its value—­raised his independence to moderate wealth.  For his children’s sake he was glad of this comfort; like every educated man who has known poverty at the outset of life, he feared it more than he cared to say.

His wife had brought him nothing—­save her beauty and her noble heart.  She wedded him when it was still doubtful whether he would hold his own in the fierce fight for a living; she died before the days of his victory.  Now and then, a friend who heard him speak of his wife’s family smiled with the thought that he only just escaped being something of a snob.  Which merely signified that a man of science attached value to descent.  Dr. Derwent knew the properties of such blood as ran in his wife’s veins, and it rejoiced him to mark the characteristics which Irene inherited from her mother.

He often suffered anxiety on behalf of his sister, Mrs. Hannaford, whom he knew to be pinched in circumstances, but whom it was impossible to help.  Lee Hannaford he disliked and distrusted; the men were poles apart in character and purpose.  The family had now left Ewell, and lived in a poor house in London.  Olga was trying to earn money by her drawing, not, it seemed, with much success.  Hannaford was always said to be on the point of selling some explosive invention to the British Government, whence would result a fortune; but the Government had not yet come to terms.

“What a shame it is,” quoth Dr. Derwent, “that an honest man who facilitates murder on so great a scale should be kept waiting for his reward!”

Hannaford pursued his slight acquaintance with Arnold Jacks, who. in ignorance of any relationship, once spoke of him to Miss Derwent.

“An ingenious fellow.  I should like to make some use of him, but I don’t quite know how.”

“I am sorry to say he belongs by marriage to our family,” replied Irene.

“Indeed?  Why sorry?”

“I detest his character.  He is neither a gentleman, nor anything else that one can respect.”

It closed a conversation in which they had differed more sharply than usual, with—­on Irene’s part—­something less than the wonted gaiety of humour.  They did not see each other very often, but always seemed glad to meet, and always talked in a tone of peculiar intimacy, as if conscious of mutual understanding.  Yet no two acquaintances could have been in greater doubt as to each other’s mind and character.  Irene was often mentally occupied with Mr. Jacks, and one of the questions she found most uncertain was whether he in turn ever thought of her with like interest.  Now she seemed to