someone he knew long ago. What could have been his object?” “As far as I could glean it was twofold. First, he believed that the fact of having left this sum just beyond your reach would cause you intense chagrin; and, secondly, that if you did not marry this unknown woman, you will still be unable to marry the girl against whom he held such a strange deep-rooted objection.” “Why did he object to her, Harrison? Tell me confidentially what you know,” urged the young man earnestly. “I only know what he told me a few days ago,” the solicitor replied. “He said he had ascertained that you had taken many clandestine walks and rides with Liane Brooker, and he declared that such a woman was no fitting wife for you.” “Did he give any further reason?” the other demanded. “None. He merely said that if you declined to abandon all thought of her you should not have a penny.” “And he has kept his word,” observed George, gloomily. “Unfortunately it appears so.” “He was unjust—cruelly unjust!” George protested. “I strove hard at the Bar, and had already obtained a few briefs when he recalled me here to be his companion. He would not allow me to follow my profession, yet he has now cast me adrift without resources.” “You certainly have my entire sympathy,” the old lawyer declared, kindly. “But don’t take the matter too much to heart. The woman may be already married. In this case you will receive fifty thousand.” George’s face relaxed into a faint smile. “I have no desire to hear of or see the woman at all,” he answered. “Act as you think fit, but remember that I shall never offer her marriage—never.” “She may be a pretty girl,” suggested the elder man. “And she may be some blear-eyed old hag,” snapped the dead man’s son. “It is evident from the wording of the clause that my father has heard nothing of either mother or daughter for some years.” “That’s all the more in your favour; because if she is thirty or so, the chances are that she is married. At all costs we must discover her.” “The whole thing is a
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