s--I shall be allowed that;
otherwise I can be of no more use to them than if I were a workhouse
pauper. They are independent of me and of everybody."

CHAPTER XXIII.

The years passed, and the destinies of our friend began to take final
shape. The bread cast upon the waters returned. The chickens came home
to roost.

One winter's morning Captain Guthrie Carey brought his ship into
Hobson's Bay. The agents of his company sent letters to him there. He
took one from the sheaf, and read it carefully--read it four times.
Then he tore it into little pieces and dropped it over the side. The
pilot and the first officer wondered at the concentrated gravity of his
mien, at the faraway look in his cold blue eyes. Yet is was a very
short and simple letter. There were no names inside, and it merely said:

"I returned by last mail, and am at the above address. I shall be at
home tomorrow afternoon at five. Of course I am seeing nobody, so we
shall be quite undisturbed. Be punctual, if possible."

The "above address" was the big house that had belonged to the late Mr
Ewing. "Tomorrow afternoon" was but an hour off.

At five precisely Captain Carey shed his ulster in the palatial
vestibule, and at the heels of a soft-footed man-servant, marched
through the warm hall and up the shallow, muffled stairs to the
familiar drawing-room--a long room, the lower end of which was in
shadow, and the upper illuminated like a shrine, with rosy lamps
projecting from a forest of chimney ornament, and a great bright red
fire twinkling upon tiles and brass. The big palms were in their big
pots, spreading and bowing over settees and cosy corners; every bowl
and vase overflowed with the choicest flowers, although it was wintry
June. And the tea-table was ready; the old seductive chairs and tables
were grouped upon the Persian hearthrug in the old way, with the
sheltering screen half round them. Indications of the desire of the
mistress of the house to give him special welcome were too marked and
many to be ignored.

He was left here to meditate in solitude for a few minutes, and he did
all the meditating that was possible in the time. His heart thumped
rather faster than was necessary, but his strong face was a picture of
composed determination. Indeed, it was not easy to recognise the young
Guthrie Carey of old Redford days in this stern, tough, substantial
man, steady as a rock amid the winds and waves of incalculable fate.
Just now he