It was not till after dinner that night that General Carden opened the book. He was then sitting in a large and comfortable armchair in his study. A shaded electric lamp stood on a table at his elbow, and he was experiencing the sense of well-being of a man who has just partaken of a most excellently cooked dinner.  
He fixed his gold-rimmed glasses on his finely chiselled nose and opened the book, though with but faint anticipation of interest. After a page or two, however, he became absorbed, almost fascinated. The writing appealed to him; it was pleasant, cultured. There were here and there some very neatly turned phrases. And then, quite suddenly, one paragraph arrested his attention. It was in itself a quite insignificant little paragraph and merely descriptive. Here it is, however:
 
“Near one corner of the house, grey-walled, weather-beaten, stood a great pear-tree, its branches almost touching the diamond-shaped panes of the narrow window—the window of the octagon room which held for him so many memories. In spring-time the tree was a mass of [Pg 66]snowy blossoms, and among their delicate fragrance a blackbird sang his daily matins. Later in the year the tree would be full of fruit, many of which fell to the ground, and, bruising in the fall, would fill the air with a sweet and almost sickly scent. In the trunk of the tree was a small shield-shaped patch, where the bark had been torn away, and the initials R. and J. cut in the smooth underwood. They belonged, so the boy had been told, to the twin brothers, whose gallant history had fascinated him from childhood.”
 
General Carden paused. There was a look of dim pain in his blue eyes. After a moment he re-read the passage carefully, and with infinitely more attention than the few sentences would appear to merit. Then he turned to the title-page and read the name of the author. Apparently it told him nothing he desired to know, and he continued his reading. Much farther on he came to another paragraph at which he again paused abruptly.
 
“‘Cricket,’ said the young man airily, ‘is a universal game, and means, speaking in general terms, the avoidance of anything which—well, hints of meanness or unfair play to our neighbours.’ They were his father’s exact words, and he knew it. At the moment, however, he c............