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 and understands me. Hope I’m not putting you to any inconvenience?”

“My dear fellow!”

“Curious, too, that I should meet you like this. What have you been doing with yourself all this time, besides getting married?”

“Not much, I fear.”

“Few of us seem to do much. I’ve made a beastly mess of it all round.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

Not that he was really sorry. As a matter of fact he was totally indifferent. More than once rumours of Brenton’s mad doings had reached him. Had the news come of his hanging he would not have been surprised. The only surprising thing was that his doings had not reached a more definite stage than rumour. Born to a title which, if not distinguished by any action that the world could justly applaud, was yet not wholly unknown, and wealth which permitted him to gratify every whim, Digby Brenton had made no attempt to seize his unmerited opportunities. From boyhood upward the way had been made easy for him; fortune smiled so persistently that he had come to regard her smiles as his especial prerogative.