“I recall the story now,” I answered; “but, do you know, as it was told me, I think they said the mob threw Faskally over in their desire for vengeance.”

“That is the official account, as told by the Le Geyts and the Faskallys; they like to have it believed their kinsman was murdered, not that he committed suicide.  But my grandfather”—­I started; during the twelve months that I had been brought into daily relations with Hilda Wade, that was the first time I had heard her mention any member of her own family, except once her mother—­“my grandfather, who knew him well, and who was present in the crowd at the time, assured me many times that Alfred Faskally really jumped over of his own accord, not pursued by the mob, and that his last horrified words as he leaped were, ’I never meant it!  I never meant it!’ However, the family have always had luck in their suicides.  The jury believed the throwing-over story, and found a verdict of ‘wilful murder’ against some person or persons unknown.”

“Luck in their suicides!  What a curious phrase!  And you say, always.  Were there other cases, then?”

“Constructively, yes; one of the Le Geyts, you must recollect, went down with his ship (just like his uncle, the General, in India) when he might have quitted her.  It is believed he had given a mistaken order.  You remember, of course; he was navigating lieutenant.  Another, Marcus, was said to have shot himself by accident while cleaning his gun—­after a quarrel with his wife.  But you have heard all about it.  ‘The wrong was on my side,’ he moaned, you know, when they picked him up, dying, in the gun-room.  And one of the Faskally girls, his cousin, of whom his wife was jealous—­that beautiful Linda—­became a Catholic, and went into a convent at once on Marcus’s death; which, after all, in such cases, is merely a religious and moral way of committing suicide—­I mean, for a woman who takes the veil just to cut herself off from the world, and who has no vocation, as I hear she had not.”

She filled me with amazement.  “That is true,” I exclaimed, “when one comes to think of it.  It shows the same temperament in fibre. . . .  But I should never have thought of it.”

“No?  Well, I believe it is true, for all that.  In every case, one sees they choose much the same way of meeting a reverse, a blunder, an unpremeditated crime.  The brave way is to go through with it, and face the music, letting what will come; the cowardly way is to hide one’s head incontinently in a river, a noose, or a convent cell.”

“Le Geyt is not a coward,” I interposed, with warmth.

“No, not, a coward—­a manly spirited, great-hearted gentleman—­but still, not quite of the bravest type.  He lacks one element.  The Le Geyts have physical courage—­enough and to spare—­but their moral courage fails them at a pinch.  They rush into suicide or its equivalent at critical moments, out of pure boyish impulsiveness.”