And so this strange conference ended.  As for me, I had sprung to the side of the old friend of my boyhood, and was trying to tell him my joy at his good fortune, and listening to his assurance that nothing that could ever befall him could weaken the love that he bore me.  My uncle touched me on the shoulder, and we were about to leave, when Ambrose, whose bronze mask had been drawn down once more over his fiery passions, came demurely towards him.

“Beg your pardon, Sir Charles,” said he; “but it shocks me very much to see your cravat.”

“You are right, Ambrose,” my uncle answered.  “Lorimer does his best, but I have never been able to fill your place.”

“I should be proud to serve you, sir; but you must acknowledge that Lord Avon has the prior claim.  If he will release me—­”

“You may go, Ambrose; you may go!” cried Lord Avon.  “You are an excellent servant, but your presence has become painful to me.”

“Thank you, Ned,” said my uncle.  “But you must not leave me so suddenly again, Ambrose.”

“Permit me to explain the reason, sir.  I had determined to give you notice when we reached Brighton; but as we drove from the village that day, I caught a glimpse of a lady passing in a phaeton between whom and Lord Avon I was well aware there was a close intimacy, although I was not certain that she was actually his wife.  Her presence there confirmed me in my opinion that he was in hiding at Cliffe Royal, and I dropped from your curricle and followed her at once, in order to lay the matter before her, and explain how very necessary it was that Lord Avon should see me.”

“Well, I forgive you for your desertion, Ambrose,” said my uncle; “and,” he added, “I should be vastly obliged to you if you would re-arrange my tie.”

CHAPTER XXII—­THE END

Sir James Ovington’s carriage was waiting without, and in it the Avon family, so tragically separated and so strangely re-united, were borne away to the squire’s hospitable home.  When they had gone, my uncle mounted his curricle, and drove Ambrose and myself to the village.

“We had best see your father at once, nephew,” said he.  “Sir Lothian and his man started some time ago.  I should be sorry if there should be any hitch in our meeting.”

For my part, I was thinking of our opponent’s deadly reputation as a duellist, and I suppose that my features must have betrayed my feelings, for my uncle began to laugh.

“Why, nephew,” said he, “you look as if you were walking behind my coffin.  It is not my first affair, and I dare bet that it will not be my last.  When I fight near town I usually fire a hundred or so in Manton’s back shop, but I dare say I can find my way to his waistcoat.  But I confess that I am somewhat accable, by all that has befallen us.  To think of my dear old friend being not only alive, but innocent as well!  And that he should have such a strapping son and heir to carry on the race of Avon!  This will be the last blow to Hume, for I know that the Jews have given him rope on the score of his expectations.  And you, Ambrose, that you should break out in such a way!”