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nobly. I am sure this uncle of mine made every move in his life—yes, even to the paring of his nails—as though the complete peerage were looking on, ready to make critical comments. How did he die? Making a short, fitting oration? Or with the damned thin lips of him pressed together as though he disapproved of death for social reasons? Ah, that man! His life was a fine, simple part, and he was very true to it.” Henry spoke laughingly. “I hated my uncle. I think he frightened me. He was one of the few people I feared. But tell me how he died.”

“It is whispered that he groaned once. I traced the rumor and found that some servant had been hiding behind a curtain. He doubtless told of it.”

“Too bad! Too bad! What a cruel shame it is to ruin a perfect life with an exhalation. But now I am not afraid of him any more. If he groaned, there was humanity in him, and weakness. I despise him, but I love him for it. As to my cousin, I shall take her off your hands, you may be sure. I dimly remember her as a tall little girl with yellow hair—a little girl who played abominably on the harp; at least it sounded abominable to me, though it may have been quite good.”

Moddyford came to a subject he had been wanting to broach.

“I have heard that you met the Red Saint in Panama and released her for a ransom. How did that happen? She was said to be the pearl of the earth.”

Henry reddened.