He nodded approvingly, but made no direct reply. Then, in answer to his questions, I told him as much of our history as I myself knew.
"And with regard to your application to me, to-day," he remarked, after a short pause, "it seems a strange one under the circumstances."
I hesitated, and then I told him everything—told him of my father's breaking heart, of my mother's last letter to me, and of my vow. He listened patiently, and with every sign of strong interest.
"Yours is a noble purpose," he said, when I had concluded, "and though I fear that it is hopeless, I shall throw no obstacle in your way. What I can do for you I will. You can go to Devereux, and I shall write Sir Francis, telling him that you are admirably suited for the work, and, from my own knowledge, that you are a gentleman. Fortunately Sir Francis is rather near-sighted, and as he obstinately refuses to wear glasses there is not the fear of his recognising you that there would otherwise be. But I'm rather afraid of Mr. Rupert. Fortunately he's not often at Devereux."
"I must chance all that," I declared. "After all, a resemblance is very different from actual recognition. I shall try to hit upon some way of altering my appearance a little."
"You have my best wishes for your success," declared the lawyer, rising. "Write me, Mr. Arbuthnot—Mr. Hugh, I may call you. I shall be always pleased to hear how you are getting on; and if you need advice or a friend at any time, come to me. Good-morning."
I left him feeling almost light-hearted. To have met a man who believed in my father was like a strong invigorating tonic to me. That afternoon I telegraphed to Marian to come to me at once, and set about making the few preparations necessary for our expected move into Yorkshire.
CHAPTER XI
COLONEL DEVEREUX'S LAND AGENT
As yet I have said nothing of my sister Marian. It is necessary for me now to do so. They say that a man can never describe or appreciate his own sister, and, on the whole, I am not disinclined to lend some credence to this statement. I know that Marian was beautiful, for many people have told me so, but to give a detailed description of her as she was then I should find an impossible task. I know that her beauty—prettiness always seemed to me the more appropriate term—was of the order evolved by the combination of a trim, shapely figure, good features and complexion, plenty of fair hair, and soft grey eyes (the latter a heritage from her mother), which knew equally well how to gleam with mischief, or to flash with a tenderer and more dangerous light. I feel some diffidence in using the term, but I am bound to here place on record my conviction that when she left school and, in obedience to my telegram, joined me in London, my sister Marian was more or less inclined to be a flirt.