As she reached the first landing she smiled back at him in a strange way, hesitating for a moment or two before passing out of his sight. "God bless her," said the old man, with tears in his eyes. "I wish I was years younger--for her sake." He returned to his chair, poured out his customary glass of port-wine, and sat sipping it in a calm, satisfied spirit. So happy and at rest did he feel, that, for a wonder, he finished that glass and poured out another, which he held up to the light and examined with all the air of a connoisseur. Then sip after sip followed, with the dark ancestral paintings seeming to look down warningly at him from the wall, till he finished that second glass and began to doze. Then the doze came to an abrupt conclusion, and his lordship started up, for he thought he heard the closing of a door, but his eyelids dropped lower and lower till they were shut, and this time he slept deeply--so deeply that he did not hear the butler enter with his cup of coffee, which the old servitor placed softly upon the table, and then went out. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ "Eh? What?" exclaimed Lord Henry, starting up. "Beg pardon for waking your lordship," said the butler, holding out a silver salver, upon which was a reddish--brown envelope; "but here is a telegram." "Telegram? Bless me!" exclaimed the old man, fumbling in rather a confused way for his glasses. "I hope--nothing wrong!" His hands trembled as he opened the envelope and took out the message, while as he read the pencilled words his jaw dropped, and the old butler took a step forward. "My lord!" These words brought him to himself. "That will do, Thompson. I will ring." The old butler glanced at his master uneasily, but obeyed, and then Lord Henry, with palsied hand, held the sham telegram to the lamp and read once more: "From Smith, West Strand. "To Lord Henry Moorpark, "300, Saint James's Square. "If you care for your honour, follow her ladyship. She has gone to keep an appointment at Channel Hotel." He crushed the paper in his hand, and caught at the table for support. Then he recovered, and drew himself up proudly. "It is a lie--a scandal!" he said in a hoarse whisper. "The dog who could send that slur against my wife deserves to be hung!" He tottered slightly at first as he walked, but he kept pulling himself together, twitching his head and crushing the paper more tightly in his hand, as he went slowly towards the door. He would not hurry, he was too proud and full of trust and belief in Marie for that; and thrusting the telegram into his pocket, he, in his usual leisurely way, touched the bell for the dessert to be cleared away, threw open the door, and gave his customary cough as he crossed the hall before mounting the handsome staircase, step by step, where Marie had turned when she left him a short time before.