He handed the usual orange
envelope to Mrs. Mac-Dermott. She tore it open impatiently and glanced
at the message inside. She gave an exclamation of surprise and read the
message through slowly and carefully. Then, without a word, she handed
it to her nephew.

"Very sorry," the telegram ran, "only to-day discovered that Bertram
had not gone to you as arranged. He is in a condition of complete
prostration. Cannot start now. Connell."

"It's from my brother," said Mrs. MacDermott, "but what on earth does it
mean? You're here all right, aren't you?"

"Yes," he said, "_I'm_ here."

He laid a good deal of emphasis on the "I." Mrs. MacDermott looked at
him with sudden suspicion.

"I've had a top-hole time," he said. "What an utterly incompetent
rotter Connell is! He had nothing on earth to do but lie low. His father
couldn't have found out."

Mrs. MacDermott walked over to the door and addressed Gafferty.

"Johnny," she said, "the horses won't be wanted to-day." She turned
to the young man who stood beside her. "Now," she said, "come into the
library and explain what all this means."

"Oh, I say, Aunt Nell," he said, "don't let's miss the day. I'll explain
the whole thing to you in the evening after dinner."

"You'll explain it now, if you can."

She led the way into the library.

"It's quite simple really," he said. "Bertram Connell, your nephew,
though a poet and all that, is rather an ass."

"Are you Bertram Connell, or are you not?" said Mrs. MacDermott.

"Oh Lord, no. I'm not that sort of fellow at all. I couldn't write
a line of poetry to save my life. He's--you simply can't imagine how
frightfully brainy he is. All the same I rather like him. He was my fag
at school and we were up together at Cambridge. I've more or less kept
up with him ever since. He's more like a girl than a man, you know. I
daresay that's why I liked him. Then he crocked up, nerves and that
sort of thing. And they said he must come over here. He didn't like the
notion a bit. I was in London just then on leave, and he told me how he
hated the idea."

"So did I," said Mrs. MacDermott.

"I said that he was a silly ass and that if I had the chance of a month
in the west of Ireland in a sporting sort of house--he told me you
hunted a lot--I'd simply jump at it. But the poor fellow was frightfully
sick at the prospect, said he was sure he wouldn't get on with you, and
that you'd simply hate him. He had a book of poetry just coming out