Richard's honest eyes were filled with tears, and mechanically he picked up the pen and laid it on the desk.
"Writing, say you, Downie; and what was he writing?"
"Oh, I cannot say—a letter to his steward, I believe."
"But—I see no letter."
"He was just about to commence it," replied Downie, whose usually pale face coloured a little.
"And that paper you pocketed in such haste, Downie, what was it?"
"Nothing, Richard, that can concern you (by-the-by, you are Lord Lamorna now!) or that fair one whose portrait you exhibit so ostentatiously just now."
Richard started, alike at the title so suddenly accorded to him by his brother, and at the reference to the portrait, for in the confusion or haste, as he bent over his dead uncle, a little miniature, which he wore at a ribbon round his neck, depicting a very beautiful dark-eyed woman, had slipped from his vest, and with an exclamation of annoyance, he hastened to conceal it.
"Who is the lady, Richard?" asked Downie.
"As yet, that must remain my secret," replied Richard; "a little time, my dear fellow, and we shall have no mysteries among us."