He drew a long breath, and his brilliant eyes flashed as if he were looking into the future, looking into the hour of triumph.

“Yes; I agree with you,” said Howard; “but I am afraid Stafford will scarcely share your ambition.”

He was sorry he had spoken as he saw the change which his words had caused in Sir Stephen.

“What?” he said, almost fiercely.  “Why do you say that?  Why should he not be ambitious?” He stopped and laid his hand on Howard’s shoulder, gripping it tightly, and his voice sank to a stern whisper.  “You don’t know of anything—­there is no woman—­no entanglement?”

“No, no!” said Howard.  “Make your mind easy on that point.  There is no one.  Stafford is singularly free in that respect.  In fact—­well, he is rather cold.  There is no one, I am sure.  I should have known it, if there had been.”

Sir Stephen’s grip relaxed, and the stern, almost savage expression was smoothed out by a smile.

“Right,” he said, still in a whisper.  “Then there is no obstacle in my way.  I shall win what I am fighting for.  Though it will not be an easy fight.  No, sir.  But easy or difficult, I mean winning.”

He rose and stood erect—­a striking figure looking over Howard’s head with an abstracted gaze; then suddenly his eyelids quivered, his face grew deathly pale, and his hand went to his heart.

Howard sprang to his feet with an exclamation of alarm; but Sir Stephen held up his hand warningly, moved slowly to one of the tables, poured out a glass of liqueur and drank it.  Then he turned to Howard, who stood watching him, uncertain what to do or say, and said, with an air of command: 

“Not a word.  It is nothing.”

Then he linked his arm in Howard’s and led him into the billiard-room.

“Table all right, Stafford?”

“First-rate, sir,” replied Stafford.  “You and Mr. Howard play a hundred.”

“No, no,” said Sir Stephen.  “You and Howard.  I should enjoy looking on.”

“We’ll have a pool,” said Stafford, taking the balls from the cabinet.  Howard watched Sir Stephen as he played his first shot:  his hand was perfectly steady, and he soon showed that he was a first-rate player.

“That was a good shot,” said Stafford, with a touch of pride in his voice.  “I don’t know that I’ve seen a better.  You play a good game, sir.”

Sir Stephen’s face flushed at his son’s praise, as a girl’s might have done; but he laughed it off.

“Only so, so, Staff.  I don’t play half as good a game as you and Mr. Howard.  How should I?—­Mr. Howard, there is the spirit-stand.  You’ll help yourself?  Servants are a nuisance in a billiard-room.”

Not once for the rest of the evening did he show any sign of the weakness which had so startled Howard, and as they went up the stairs he told them a story with admirable verve and with evident enjoyment.

“Sorry our evening has come to an end,” he said as they stood outside his door.  “It is the last we shall have to ourselves.  Pity.  But it can’t be helped.”