som drew up
before a house in Portman Square. Douglas Falloden emerged from it, as
the door was opened by a maidservant.

The house, which had been occupied at the beginning of the season by the
family, was given over now to a charwoman and a couple of housemaids,
the senior of whom looked a little scared at the prospect of having to
wait on the magnificent gentleman who had just entered the house. In
general, when Mr. Douglas came up to town in the absence of his family,
he put up at his own very expensive club, and the servants in Portman
Square were not troubled with him. But they, like every one else, knew
that something was going wrong with the Fallodens.

Falloden walked into the deserted and dust-sheeted house, while the
cabman brought in his portmanteau. "Is Mr. Gregory here?" he enquired
of the maid.

"Yes, sir, he is in the library. Please, sir, Mrs. O'Connor wants to
know if you'll want dinner."

Falloden impatiently said "No," and walked on down a long passage to the
library, which had been built out at the back of the house. Here the
blinds had been drawn up, only to reveal the dusty desolation of an
unused room, in which a few chairs had been uncovered, and a table
cleared. A man rose from a chair beside the table, and he and Falloden
shook hands. He was a round-faced and broad-shouldered person, with one
of the unreadable faces developed by the life of a prominent solicitor,
in contact with all sorts of clients and many varieties of business; and
Falloden's sensitive pride had soon detected in his manner certain
shades of expression to which the heir of Flood Castle was not
accustomed.

"I am sorry to hear Sir Arthur is not well." Mr. Gregory spoke politely,
but perhaps without that accent of grave and even tragic concern which
six months earlier he would have given to the same words. "There is a
great deal of heavy, and, I am afraid, disagreeable business to
be done."

"My father is not fit for it," said Falloden abruptly. "I must do the
best I can."

Mr. Gregory gave a sign of assent. He drew a packet of documents from
his pocket, and spreading out a letter from Sir Arthur Falloden on the
table, proceeded to deal with the points in it seriatim. Falloden sat
beside him, looking carefully through the various documents handed to
him, asking questions occasionally, and making notes of his own. In the
dusty northern light of the room, his face had a curiously purple and
congested look; and his eyes