Then, after he had pushed the stammering, protesting, almost hysterical Tollemache across the threshold and bolted the door, he repeated his last words:
“The world must never know, Hector!”
“You don’t think Higgins can be persuaded to keep mum?”
“Not his sort of cad. He hates—us, our class, because he came up from some reeking gutter while we have the infernal impudence of knowing who our grandfathers were. I’ll try. I’ll talk to him. But—”
“You think it will be useless?”
“I know it will be, Hector! You must play the game. Tollemache is my first-born son. Some day he will be the Earl of Dealle. And it must never be said that an earl of Dealle cheated at cards!”
Hector stood quite still. He stared at his father out of his black, opaque eyes. Something naked reached out and touched his soul, leaving the chill of an indescribable uneasiness.
“You mean,” he asked slowly, haltingly, “that—because I am the younger son …”
“It is our tradition. Hector! The tradition of the Wades of Dealle! In a way, the tradition of England: service, courage, sacrifice!”
“Sacrifice!” Hector picked up the word like a battle gage. “I don’t fancy I’m worse than the average coward, sir. I s’pose I’ll stand the gaff when it comes to sacrificing my blood, my life. But—my pride? My honor?”
“Yes! Even that!”
Hector stared straight ahead of him. He was
