After a time I became calmer and listened while he told me of the death
of the stately Sir Barnard and his eldest son. They had gone away
together on a trip to Italy. Miles Trevelyan was very fond of pictures,
and his father had given him permission to buy what he pleased for the
great picture gallery at Crown Anstey.
They went together to Florence, where a fearful epidemic was raging.
They, all unconscious of it, remained there for one night, caught it,
and in two days both lay dead.
I asked how old was Miles, this eldest and favorite son. He told me
twenty-seven. I asked again, had he never been married. He answered no;
that, of course, if he had been married and had children, I should not
be the heir to Crown Anstey.
"There was some little unpleasantness between father and son over a love
affair," said Mr. Moreland. "I do not know the particulars. Mr. Miles
Trevelyan was very proud and reserved. He mentioned it to us, but we
heard no more of it."
"What am I to do next?" I asked him, nervously.
"You ought to go down at once to Crown Anstey. The bodies of the two
gentlemen will be brought home for interment.
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