, he fell into the habit of
dwelling upon it as the only boon in life. Thomas Carr was on circuit,
so that Hartledon was alone.

Easter was early that year, the latter end of March. On the Monday in
Passion-week there arrived a telegram for Lord Hartledon sent apparently
by the butler, Hedges. It was vaguely worded; spoke of a railway accident
and somebody dying. Who he could not make out, except that it was a
Kirton: and it prayed him to hasten down immediately. All his goodness of
heart aroused, Val lost not a moment. He had been engaged to spend Easter
with some people in Essex, but dispatched a line of apology, and hastened
down to Calne, wondering whether it was the dowager or Maude, and whether
death would have taken place before his arrival.

"What accident has there been?" he demanded, leaping out of the carriage
at Calne Station; and the man he addressed happened to be the porter,
Jones.

"Accident?" returned Jones, touching his cap.

"An accident on the line; somewhere about here, I conclude. People
wounded; dying."

"There has been no accident here," said Jones, in his sulky way. "Maybe
your lordship's thinking of the one on the branch line, the bridge that
fell in?"

"Nonsense," said Lord Hartledon, "that took place a fortnight ago. I
received a telegram this morning from my butler, saying some one was
dying at Hartledon from a railway accident," he impatiently added. "I
took it to be either Lady Kirton or her daughter."

Mr. Jones swung round a large iron key he held in his hand, and light
dawned upon him.

"I know now," he said. "There was a private accident at the station here
last night; your lordship must mean that. A gentleman got out of a
carriage before it stopped, and fell between the rail and the platform.
His name was Kirton. I saw it on his portmanteau."

"Lord Kirton?"

"No, my lord. Captain Kirton."

"Was he seriously hurt?"

"Well, it was thought so. Mr. Hillary feared the leg would have to come
off. He was carried to Hartledon."

Very much relieved, Lord Hartledon jumped into a fly and was driven home.
The countess-dowager embraced him and fell into hysterics.

The crafty old dowager, whose displayed emotion was as genuine as she
was! She had sent for this son of hers, hoping he might be a decoy-duck
to draw Hartledon home again, for she was losing heart; and the accident,
which she had not bargained for, was a very god-send to her.

"Why don't you word your telegrams more