THE GALAXY.
JUNE 15, 1866
"Well, and what of Gerald?" asked Sir John Durant, when at length a somewhat silent dinner was finished, and Lady Durant and Lucia had left the uncle and nephew alone over their wine. "You found him out and gave him my message, as I desired, Robert?"
"Yes, sir. I gave him your message," answered Dennison. "Indeed, I returned from Paris by Morteville instead of Havre, to do so."
"Morteville! Is Gerald there?"
"He has been there for the last week or more, I believe."
"Doing what, pray?"
"Well, sir—" and Mr. Dennison had the grace to hesitate.
"Robert," cried the old man, "I desire that you will speak the honest truth to me. The time has past for you, or for any of us, to show any consideration in speaking of Gerald's actions. For Lucia's sake alone, I have a right to put these questions, and to require very plain speaking from you in reply."
"Oh, don't think there's anything wrong going on," said Robert, looking up with sudden animation. "Poor Gerald merely seems to be killing his time as usual. He has been travelling for a month in the Tyrol, I believe, and is now—well, if I must speak plainly—is now losing a good deal of money to some table d'hôte acquaintance at écarté, every evening, and running about during the day-time after the last pretty face that has taken his fancy. Nothing more than that, sir, on my word."
"Oh! And what answer did he give to my message?" It never wanted more than one word of Robert Dennison's dispraise to make the old man secretly warm toward the absent prodigal. "You gave it him exactly in my words, I hope?"
"I did. I had your letter in my hand when I spoke to him."
"Well?"
"Well, sir, I really don't think there are any grounds whatever for supposing Gerald is guilty of what you have suspected him—on my word, I do not
