His renewed outcry that he could not do it, that it was not a thing to be thought of for a moment, was stopped by a knock at the door, at which, when Dora, after vainly bidding the unknown applicant come in, opened it, there appeared an old gentleman, utterly unknown to both, and whose appearance was extremely disturbing to the invalid newly issued from his sick room, and the girl who still felt herself his nurse and protector. “I hope I do not come at a bad moment,” the stranger said. “I took the opportunity of an open door to come straight up without having myself announced. I trust I may be pardoned for the liberty. Mr. Mannering, you do not recollect me, but I have seen you before. I am Mr. Templar, of Gray’s Inn. I have something of importance to say to you, which will, I trust, excuse my intrusion.” “Oh,” cried Dora. “I am sure you cannot know that my father has been very ill. He is out of his room for the first time to-day.” The old gentleman said that he was very sorry, and then that he was very glad. “That means in a fair way of recovery,” he said. “I don’t know,” he added, addressing Mannering, who was pondering over him with a somewhat sombre countenance, “whether I may speak to you about my business, Mr. Mannering, at such an early date: but I am almost forced to do so by my orders: and whether you would rather hear my commission in presence of this young lady or not.” “Where is it we have met?” Mannering said, with a more and more gloomy look. “I will tell you afterwards, if you will hear me in the first place. I come to announce to you, Mr. Mannering, the death of a client of mine, who has left a very considerable fortune to your daughter, Dora Mannering--this young lady, I presume: and with it a prayer that the young lady, to whom she leaves everything, may be permitted to--may, with your consent----” “Oh,” cried Dora, “I know! It is the poor lady from South America!” And then she became silent and grew red. “Father, I have hid something from you,” she said, faltering. “I have seen a lady, forgive me, who was your enemy. She said you would never forgive her. Oh, how one’s sins find one out! It was not my fault that I went, and I thought you would never know. She was mamma’s sister, father.” “She was--who?” Mr. Mannering rose from his chair. He had been pale before, he became now livid, yellow, his thin cheek-bones standing out, his hollow eyes with a glow in them, his mouth drawn in. He towered over the two people beside him--Dora frightened and protesting, the visitor very calm and observant--looking twice his height in his extreme leanness and gauntness. “Who--who was it? Who?” His whole face asked the question. He stood a moment tottering, then dropped back in complete exhaustion into his chair.