From a life of strenuous activity he had, in one single hour, been
doomed to one of loneliness and inactivity. His friends sympathised, as
indeed the whole British public had done; but in a month the tragic
affair and its attendant mysterious gossip had been forgotten, as in
truth had the very name of Sir Henry Heyburn, whom the Prime Minister,
though his political opponent, had one night designated in the House as
"one of the most brilliant and talented young men who has ever sat upon
the Opposition benches."

In his declining years the life of this man was a pitiful tragedy, his
filmy eyes sightless, his thin white fingers ever eager and nervous, his
hours full of deep thought and silent immobility. To him, what was the
benefit of that beautiful Perthshire castle which he had purchased from
Lord Strathavon a year before his compulsory retirement? What was the
use of the old ancestral manor near Caistor in Lincolnshire, or the
town-house in Park Street, the snug hunting-box at Melton, or the
beautiful palm-shaded, flower-embowered villa overlooking the blue
southern sea at San Remo? He remembered them all. He had misty visions
of their splendour and their luxury; but since his blindness he had
seldom, if ever, entered them. That big library up in Scotland in which
he now sat was the room he preferred; and with his daughter Gabrielle to
bear him company, to smooth his brow with her soft hand, to chatter and
to gossip, he wished for no other companion. His life was of the past, a
meteor that had flashed and had vanished for ever.

"Tell me, child, what is troubling you?" he was asking in a calm, kind
voice, as he still held the girl's hand in his. The sweet scent of the
roses from the garden beyond filled the room.

A smart footman in livery opened the door at that moment, asking,