e asked.

Jack moved in his chair, but he made no answer. Sir John did not indeed
expect it. He knew his son too well.

"Will you," he continued, "go out to Africa and take your lame story to
Jocelyn just as it is?"

There was a long silence. The old worn-out clock on the mantelpiece
wheezed and struck six.

"Yes," answered Jack at length, "I will go."

Sir John nodded his head with a sigh of relief. All, indeed, comes to
him who waits.

"I have seen a good deal of life," he said suddenly, arousing himself
and sitting upright in the stiff-backed chair, "here and there in the
world; and I have found that the happiest people are those who began by
thinking that it was too late. The romance of youth is only fit to write
about in books. It is too delicate a fabric for everyday use. It soon
wears out or gets torn."

Jack did not seem to be listening.

"But," continued Sir John, "you must not waste time. If I may suggest
it, you will do well to go at once."

"Yes," answered Jack, "I will go in a month or so. I should like to see
you in a better state of health before I leave you."

Sir John pulled himself together. He threw back his shoulders and
stiffened his neck.

"My health is excellent," he replied sturdily. "Of course I am
beginning to feel my years a little, but one must expect to do that
after--eh--er--sixty. C'est la vie."

He made a little movement of the hands.

"No," he went on, "the sooner you go the better."

"I do not like leaving you," persisted Jack.

Sir John laughed rather testily.

"That is rather absurd," he said; "I am accustomed to being left. I have
always lived alone. You will do me a favour if you will go now and take
your passage out to Africa."

"Now--this evening?"

"Yes--at once. These offices close about half-past six, I believe. You
will just have time to do it before dinner."

Jack rose and went towards the door. He went slowly, almost reluctantly.

"Do not trouble about me," said Sir John, "I am accustomed to being
left."

He repeated it when the door had closed behind his son.

The fire was low again. It was almost dying. The daylight was fading
every moment. The cinders fell together with a crumbling sound, and a
greyness crept into their glowing depths. The old man sitting there made
no attempt to add fresh fuel.

"I am accustomed," he said, with a half-cynical smile, "to being left."

CHAPTER XLV. THE TELEGRAM

How could it end in any other w