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He had seen his father at tea earlier in the afternoon.

The old earl had offered him money, letters to friends in Canada or at the Cape.

But Hector had shaken his head, stubbornly, resolutely.

“I want nothing, father,” he had said. “I am through with”—making a sweeping gesture—“all this!”

“You are through with—me?”

The earl had stretched out a withered, appealing old hand. But Hector had disregarded it.

“Yes, father,” he had replied, simply, chillily.

And so he left the home of his ancestors, carrying with him nothing except the small kit bag, the ancient blade that pressed against his heart, and—memories.

He left no address behind; when Tollemache that morning had tried to speak to him, he had turned his back on him without a word; and nobody saw him go, except Tomps, the butler.

The latter was fingering a five-pound note which Mr. Preserved Higgins had given him with the promise that there was another five pounds waiting for him if he wired Mr. Higgins on what day and by what train Hector Wade was leaving Dealle. He saw no reason why he should not earn that five pounds. He followed Hector at a safe distance, saw that he was taking the five forty-five for Waterloo Station, and wired Mr. Higgins accordingly. It was delivered to the millionaire simultaneously with a cable from his confidential agent in New York telling him that the telegram he had sent to Mr. Ezra W. Warburton, 59b