Another cheer arose—again it was started by the very man who had attacked poor Stafford, and before it had ceased to ring through the crowded room, Stafford had made his way out.
Mr. Falconer caught him by the arm as he was going down the stairs.
"Do you know what you have done?" he demanded in his dry, harsh voice.
"You have made yourself a pauper."
Stafford stopped and looked at him with a dull, vacant gaze.
"A pauper!" repeated Falconer, huskily.
"I daresay," said Stafford, wearily.
"And you an earl!" said Falconer, his face a brick-dust red. "Do you
think they will have any pity? Not they. They'll take you at your word.
They'll have every penny! How do you mean to live? You, the Earl of
Highcliffe!"
Stafford passed his hand across his brow; and a smile, a grim smile, curved his lips.
"I don't know," he said. "The money was theirs, not mine."
"Stuff and rubbish!" said Falconer. "You thought only of yourself, of your father's good name. I need scarcely tell you that Maude…"