h pangs long nourished
And rounded to despair;"

and he looked now even more worn and old than he had done at Ben
Rhydding in the first days of his trouble.

However, he turned resolutely away from the subject I had introduced and
began to discuss titles for his novel.

"It's impossible to find anything new," he said, "absolutely impossible.
I declare I shall take to numbers."

I laughed at this prosaic notion, and we were still discussing the title
when we reached home.

"Don't say anything about it at lunch," he said as we entered. "My
father detests my writing."

I nodded assent and opened the sitting-room door--a strong smell of
brandy instantly became apparent; the Major sat in the green velvet
chair, which had been wheeled close to the hearth. He was drunk.

Derrick gave an ejaculation of utter hopelessness.

"This will undo all the good of Ben Rhydding!" he said. "How on earth
has he managed to get it?"

The Major, however, was not so far gone as he looked; he caught up the
remark and turned towards us with a hideous laugh.

"Ah, yes," he said, "that's the question. But the old man has still some
brains, you see. I'll be even with you yet, Derrick. You needn't think
you're to have it all your own way. It's my turn now. You've deprived me
all this time of the only thing I care for in life, and now I turn the
tables on you. Tit for tat. Oh! yes, I've turned your d----d scribblings
to a useful purpose, so you needn't complain!"

All this had been shouted out at the top of his voice and freely
interlarded with expressions which I will not repeat; at the end he
broke again into a laugh, and with a look, half idiotic, half devilish,
pointed towards the grate.

"Good Heavens!" I said, "what have you done?"

By the side of the chair I saw a piece of brown paper, and, catching
it up, read the address--"Messrs. Davison, Paternoster Row"; in the
fireplace was a huge charred mass. Derrick caught his breath; he stooped
down and snatched from the fender a fragment of paper slightly burned,
but still not charred beyond recognition like the rest. The writing was
quite legible--it was his own writing--the description of the Royalists'
attack and Paul Wharncliffe's defence of the bridge. I looked from the
half-burnt scrap of paper to the side table where, only the previous
night, we had placed the novel, and then, realising as far as any but an
author could realise the frightful thing that had happened, I loo