Before Mr. Caryll left White's—which he did at a comparatively early hour, that he might be at home to receive Lord Rotherby's friends—not a man present but had offered him his services in the affair he had upon his hands. Wharton, indeed, was not to be denied for one; and for the other Mr. Caryll desired Gascoigne to do him the honor of representing him.  
It was a fine, dry night, and feeling the need for exercise, Mr. Caryll set out to walk the short distance from St. James's Street to his , with a link-boy, preceding him, for only attendant. Arrived home, he was met by Leduc with the information that Sir Richard Everard was awaiting him. He went in, and the next moment he was in the arms of his adoptive father.
 
Greetings and courtesies disposed of, Sir Richard came straight to the affair which he had at heart. “Well? How speeds the matter?”
 
Mr. Caryll's face became . He sat down, a thought wearily.
 
“So far as Lord Ostermore is concerned, it speeds—as you would wish it. So far as I am concerned”—he paused and sighed—“I would that it sped not at all, or that I was out of it.”
 
Sir Richard looked at him with searching eyes. “How?” he asked. “What would you have me understand?”
 
“That in spite of all that has been said between us, in spite of all the arguments you have employed, and with which once, for a little while, you convinced me, this task is to me in the last degree. Ostermore is my father, and I can't forget it.”
 
“And your mother?” Sir Richard's tone was sad, rather than indignant; it of a bitter disappointment, not at the events, but at this man whom he loved with all a father's love.
 
“It were idle to go over it all again. I know everything that you would—that you could—say. I have said it all to myself again and again, in a vain endeavor to steel myself to the business to which you me. Had Ostermore been different, perhaps it had been easier. I cannot say. As it is, I see in him a weakling, a man of inferior intellect, who does not judge things as you and I judge them, whose life cannot have been guided by the rules that serve for men of stronger purpose.”
 
“You find excuses for him? For his deed?” cried Sir Richard, and his voice was full of horror now; he stared askance at his adoptive son.
 
“No, no! Oh, I don't know. On my soul and conscience, I don't know!” cried Mr. Caryll, like one in pain. He rose and moved restlessly about the room. “No,” he pursued more calmly, “I don't excuse him. I blame him—more bitterly than you can think; perhaps more bitterly even than do you, for I have had a look into his mind and see the exact place held there by my mother's memory. I can judge and him; but I can't execute him; I can't betray him. I don't think I could do it even if he were not my father.”
 
He paused, and leaning his hands upon the table at which Sir Richard sat, he faced him, and spoke in a voice of earnest pleading. “Sir Richard, this was not the task to give me; or, if you had planned to give it me, you should have reared me differently; you should not have sought to make of me a gentleman. You have brought me up to principles of honor, and you ask me now to them, to cast them off, and to become a very Judas. Is't wonderful I should rebel?”
 
They were hurtful words to Sir Richard—the poor whose mind was all unsound on this one point, who had lived in contemplation of his as a fasting lives through Lent in contemplation of the Easter plenty. The lines of sorrow deepened in his face.
 
“Justin,” he said slowly, “you forget one thing. Honor is to be used with men of honor; but he who allows his honor to stand a barrier between himself and the man who has wronged him by dishonor, is no better than a fool. You speak of yourself; you think of yourself. And what of me, Justin? The things you say of yourself apply in a like degree—nay, even more—to me.”
 
“Ah, but you are not his son. Oh, believe me, I speak not hastily or lightly. I have been torn this way and that in these past days, until at moments the burden has been heavier than I could bear. Once, for a little while, I thought I could do all and more than you expect of me—the moment, indeed, in which I took the first step, and delivered him the letter. But it was a moment of wild heat. I cooled, and reflection followed, and since then, because so much was done, I have not known an instant's peace of mind; I have endeavored to forget the position in which I am placed; but I have failed. I cannot. And if I go through with this thing, I shall not know another hour in life that is not poisoned by .”
 
“Remorse?” echoed Sir Richard, between and anger. “Remorse?” He laughed bitterly. “What thee, boy? Do you pretend that Lord Ostermore should go unpunished? Do you go so far as that?”
 
“Not so. He has made others suffer, and it is just—as we understand justice—that he should suffer in his turn. Though, when all is said, he is but a poor egotist, too dull-witted to understand the full of his sin. He is suffering, as it is—cursed in his son; for 'the father of a fool hath no joy.' He hates this son of his, and his son despises him. His wife is a shrew, a termagant, who every hour of his existence. Thus he drags out his life, unloving and unloved, a thing to pity.”
 
“Pity?” cried Sir Richard in a voice of thunder. “Pity? Ha! As I've a soul, Justin, he shall be more pitiful yet ere I have done with him.”
 
“Be it so, then. But—if you love me—find some other hand to do the work.”
 
“If I love you, Justin?” echoed the other, and his voice , his eyes looked reproachfully upon his adoptive child. “Needs there an 'if' to that? Are you not all I have—my son, indeed?”
 
He held out his hands, and Justin took them affectionately and pressed them in his own.
 
“You'll put these weak notions from your mind, Justin, and prove the noble lady who was your mother?”
 
Mr. Caryll moved aside again, hanging his head, his face pale and troubled. Where Everard's arguments must fail, his own affection for Everard was like to conquer him. It was very weak in him, he told himself; but then his love for Everard was strong, and he would fain spare Everard the pain he knew he must be occasioning him. Still he did battle, his up in arms.
 
“I would you could see the matter as I see it,” he sighed. “This man grown old, and reaping in his old age the fruits of the egotism he has sown. I do not believe that in all the world there is a single soul would weep his lordship's death—if we except, perhaps, Mistress Winthrop.”
 
“And do you pity him for that?” quoth Sir Richard coldly. “What right has he to expect aught else? Who sows for himself, reaps for himself. I , indeed, that there should be even one to bewail him—to spare him a kind thought.”
 
“And even there,” Mr. Caryll, “it is perhaps rather than affection that inspires the kindness.”
 
“Who is Mistress Winthrop?”
 
“His . As sweet a lady, I think, as I have ever seen,” said Mr. Caryll, incautious enthusiasm him. Sir Richard's eyes narrowed.
 
“You have some acquaintance with her?” he suggested.
 
Very Mr. Caryll for the second time that evening the circumstances of his first meeting with Rotherby.
 
Sir R............