Morris hardly attended to this, for the game was critical.  He just rang the bell, said good night, and had thrown again before the door had closed behind Mr. Taynton.  Below, in answer to the bell, was standing his servant.

Mr. Taynton looked at him again with some attention, and then glanced round to see if the discreet parlour-maids were about.

“So you are called Martin now,” he observed gently.

“Yes, sir.”

“I recognised you at once.”

There was a short pause.

“Are you going to tell Mr. Morris, sir?” he asked.

“That I had to dismiss you two years ago for theft?” said Mr. Taynton quietly.  “No, not if you behave yourself.”

Mr. Taynton looked at him again kindly and sighed.

“No, let bygones be bygones,” he said.  “You will find your secret is safe enough.  And, Martin, I hope you have really turned over a new leaf, and are living honestly now.  That is so, my lad?  Thank God; thank God.  My umbrella?  Thanks.  Good night.  No cab:  I will walk.”

CHAPTER II

Mr. Taynton lived in a square, comfortable house in Montpellier Road, and thus, when he left Mrs. Assheton’s there was some two miles of pavement and sea front between him and home.  But the night was of wonderful beauty, a night of mid June, warm enough to make the most cautious secure of chill, and at the same time just made crisp with a little breeze that blew or rather whispered landward from over the full-tide of the sleeping sea.  High up in the heavens swung a glorious moon, which cast its path of white enchanted light over the ripples, and seemed to draw the heart even as it drew the eyes heavenward.  Mr. Taynton certainly, as he stepped out beneath the stars, with the sea lying below him, felt, in his delicate and sensitive nature, the charm of the hour, and being a good if not a brisk walker, he determined to go home on foot.  And he stepped westward very contentedly.

The evening, it would appear, had much pleased him—­for it was long before his smile of retrospective pleasure faded from his pleasant mobile face.  Morris’s trust and confidence in him had been extraordinarily pleasant to him:  and modest and unassuming as he was, he could not help a secret gratification at the thought.  What a handsome fellow Morris was too, how gay, how attractive!  He had his father’s dark colouring, and tall figure, but much of his mother’s grace and charm had gone to the modelling of that thin sensitive mouth and the long oval of his face.  Yet there was more of the father there, the father’s intense, almost violent, vitality was somehow more characteristic of the essential Morris than face or feature.