While Montague Nevitt was thus congenially engaged in pulling off his treble coup of settling his own share in the Rio Negro deficit, pocketing three thousand pounds, pro tem, for incidental expenses, and getting Guy Waring thoroughly into his power by his knowledge of a forgery, two other events were taking place elsewhere, which were destined to prove of no small importance to the future of the twins and their immediate surroundings. Things generally were converging towards a crisis in their affairs. Colonel Kelmscott’s wrong-doing was bearing first-fruit abundantly.

For as soon as Granville Kelmscott received that strangely-worded note from Gwendoline Gildersleeve, he proceeded, as was natural, straight down, in his doubt, to his father’s library. There, bursting into the room, with Gwendoline’s letter still crushed in his hand in the side pocket of his coat, and a face like thunder, he stood in the attitude of avenging fate before his father’s chair, and gazed down upon him angrily.

“What does THIS mean?” he asked, in a low but fuming voice, brandishing the note before his eyes as he spoke. “Is every one in the county to be told it but I? Is everybody else to hear my business before you tell me a word of it? A letter comes to me this morning—no matter from whom—and here’s what it says: ‘I know you’re not the eldest son, and that somebody else is the heir of Tilgate.’ Surely, if anybody was to know, I should have known it first. Surely, if I’m to be turned adrift on the world, after being brought up to think myself a man of means so long, I should, at least, be turned adrift with my eyes open.”

Colonel Kelmscott gazed at him open-mouthed with horror.

“Did Gwendoline Gildersleeve write that to you?” he cried, overpowered at once by remorse and awe. “Did Gwendoline Gildersleeve write that to you? Well, if Gwendoline Gildersleeve knows it, it’s all up with the scheme! That rascally lawyer, her father, has found out everything. These two young men must have put their case in the fellow’s hands. He must be hunting up the facts. He must be preparing to contest it. My boy, my boy, we’re ruined! we’re ruined!”

“These two young men,” Granville repeated, with a puzzled air of surprise. “WHAT two young men? I don’t know them. I never heard of them.” Then suddenly one of those flashes of intuition burst in upon him that burst in upon us all at moments of critical importance to our lives. “Father, father,” he cried, loaning forward in his anguish and clutching the oak chair, “you don’t mean to tell me those fellows, the Warings, that we met at Chetwood Court, are your lawful sons—and that THAT was why you bought the landscape with the snake in it?”

Kelmscott, of Tilgate, bent his proud head down to the table unchecked. “My son, my son,” he cried, in his despair, “you have said it yourself. Your own mouth has suggested it. What use my trying to keep it from you any longer? These lads—are Kelmscotts.”

“And—my mother?” Granville Kelmscott burst out, in a very tremulous voice. The question was almost more than a man dare ask. But he asked it in the first bitterness of a terrible awakening.

“Your mother,” Colonel Kelmscott answered, lifting his head once more, with a terrible effort, and looking his son point-blank in the face—“your mother is just what I have always called her—my lawful wife—Lady Emily Kelmscott. The mother of these lads, to whom I was also once duly married, died before my marriage with my present wife—thank God I can say so. I may have acted foolishly, cruelly, criminally; but at least I never acted quite so basely and so ill as you impute to me, Granville.”

“Thank Heaven for that,” his son answered fervently, with one hand on his breast, drawing a deep sigh as he spoke. “You’re my father, sir, and it isn’t for me to reproach you; but if you had only done THAT—oh, my mother! my mother! I don’t know, sir, I’m sure, how I could ever have forgiven you; I don’t know how I could ever have kept my hands off you.”

Colonel Kelmscott straightened himself up, and looked hard at his son. A terrible pathos gleamed in his proud brown eyes. His white moustache had more dignity than ever.

“Granville,” he said slowly, like a broken man, “I don’t ask you to forgive me; you can never forgive me; I don’t ask you to sympathise with me; a father knows better than to accept sympathy from a son; but I do ask you to bear with me while I try to explain myself.”

He braced himself up, and with many long pauses, and many inarticulate attempts to set forth the facts in the least unfavourable aspect, told his story all through, in minute detail, to that hardest of all critics, his own dispossessed and disinherited boy.

“If you’re hard upon me, Granville,” he cried at last as he finished, looking wistfully for pity into his son’s face, “you should remember, at least, it was for your sake I did it, my boy; it was for your sake I did it—yours, yours, and your mother’s.”

Granville let him relate his whole story in full to the bitter end, though it was with difficulty at times that that proud and grey-haired man nerved himself up to tell it. Then, as soon as all was told, he looked in his father’s face once more, and said slowly, with............