My father seemed to me to be on the eve of a collapse.  His lips moved, and he mumbled something, but the words were wholly unintelligible.  Ray turned to my stepmother.

“When that man,” he continued, “had the effrontery to return to this country, he sent his cursed jackal with letters to his son.  I intercepted those letters, and I burned them; but I came straight to London, and I found him out.  I told him then that I spared him only for the sake of his son.  I told him that if ever again he attempted in any way to communicate with him, personally or by letter, nothing should stay my hand.  He had a very clear warning.  He has chosen to defy me.  I only regret, madam, that the law has no hold upon you also.”

She turned from him scornfully and laid her hand upon my father’s shoulder.  Her very touch seemed to impart life to him.  His words were not very coherent, but they were comprehensible.

“I kept my word, Ray.  Yes, I kept my word,” he said.  “I never sent for him.  Ask him; ask her.  We met by accident.  I told him my address.  That is all.  He came here this afternoon with a message from the Duke.”

Ray laughed bitterly.  There was about his manner a cold and singular aloofness.  We were all judged and condemned.

“An invitation to dinner, I presume,” he remarked.

“The Duke sent for me,” my stepmother said, quietly.

She did not for a moment quail before the scornful disbelief which Ray took no pains to hide.

“You can see for yourself if you like,” she continued, “that in a few minutes I shall leave this house, with you, if you are gallant enough to offer me your escort, and I shall go straight to Cavendish Square.  You have no imagination, Colonel Ray, or you would not be so utterly surprised.  Think for a moment.  Does no reason occur to you why the Duke might wish to see me?”

It obviously did.  He frowned heavily.

“If this absurd story is true,” he said, “and the Duke has really sent to ask news of Blenavon from you—­well, he is a bigger fool than I took him for.  But there remains something else to be explained.  What are those papers?”

My father laid his trembling hands upon them.

“They have nothing to do with you,” he explained; “nothing at all!  It is a little family matter-between Guy and me.  Nothing more.  They belong to me.  Damn you, Ray, why are you always interfering in my concerns?”

Ray turned to me.  There was a look in his eyes which I readily understood.  At that moment I think that I hated him.

“What are those papers?” he asked.

“Take them and see,” I answered.  “If I told you you would not believe me.”

He moved a few steps towards them, and then paused.  I saw that my father was leaning forward, and in his shaking hand was a tiny gleaming revolver.  A certain desperate courage seemed to have come to him.

“Ray,” he cried hoarsely, “touch them at your peril!”