Lionel glanced up at him in surprise.
"Have I ever ceased wondering, you might have said. I don't know why he did."
"Did he never give you a reason—or an explanation?"
"Nothing of the sort. Except—yes, except a trifle. Some time after his death, Mrs. Tynn discovered a formidable-looking packet in one of his drawers, sealed and directed to me. She thought it was the missing codicil; so did I, until I opened it. It proved to contain nothing but a glove; one of my old gloves, and a few lines from my uncle. They were to the effect that when I received the glove I should know why he disinherited me."
"And did you know?" asked John Massingbird, applying a light to his pipe.
"Not in the least. It left the affair more obscure, if possible, than it had been before. I suppose I never shall know now."
"Never's a long day," cried John Massingbird. "But you told me about this glove affair before."
"Did I? Oh, I remember. When you first returned. That is all the explanation I have ever had."
"It was not much," said John. "Dickens take this pipe! It won't draw. Where's my knife?"
Not finding his knife about him, he went off to look for it, dragging his slippers along the hall in his usual lazy fashion. Lionel, glad of the respite, applied himself to his work.