"Any news of his daughter?" said Mr. Bonnithorne, sinking his voice to a whisper. "Whose daughter?" said Hugh, pausing and looking over his shoulder. "The old man's--Laird Fisher's." "Strangely enough--yes. A letter came this morning." Hugh Ritson stopped playing and thrust his hand into an inner pocket. But Mr. Bonnithorne hastened to show that he had no desire to pry into another man's secrets. "Pray don't trouble. Perhaps you'd rather not--just tell me in a word how things are shaping." Hugh laughed a little, unfolded a sheet of scented writing-paper, with ornamented border, and began to read: "'I am writing to thank you very much--' Here," tossing the letter to the lawyer, "read it for yourself." Then he resumed his playing. Mr. Bonnithorne fixed his nose-glasses, and read: "I am writing to thank you very much for your kind remembrance of me, it was almost like having your company, I live in hopes of seeing you soon, when are you coming to me? Sometimes I think you will never, never come, and then I can't help crying though I try not to, and I don't cry much. I don't go out very often London is far away, six miles, there are nice people here and nice children. Only think when my trouble is over and you come and take me home. How is poor father, does he look much older does he fret for me now? I wonder will he know me. I am quite well, only there is something the matter in my eyes. Sometimes when I wake up I can't see plain. Don't be long writing. My eyes are very sore and red to-day, and it is oh so lonely in this strange place. Mrs. Drayton is kind to me. Good-bye. She has a son, but he is always at meets, that is races, and I have never seen him. Write soon to your loving Mercy. The time is near." Hugh played on while Mr. Bonnithorne read. The lawyer, when he came to the end, handed the letter back with the simple comment: "Came this morning, you say? It was written last Tuesday--nearly a week ago." Hugh nodded his head over his shoulder, and continued to play. He swayed to and fro with an easy grace to the long sweeps of the music until the door opened sharply, and Paul entered with a firm step. Then he rose, picked a pen from the inkstand, and dipped it in the ink. Paul wore a suit of rough, light cloth, with leggins, and a fur cap, which he did not remove. His face was pale; decision sat on every line of it. "Excuse me, Mr. Bonnithorne, if I don't shake hands," he said in his deep voice; "I'm at work, and none too clean." "This," said Hugh Ritson, twiddling the pen in his fingers, "this is the deed I spoke of yesterday. You sign there," pointing to a blank space in front of a little wafer. Then he placed one hand firmly on the upper part of the parchment, as if to steady it, and held out the pen. Paul made no approach to accepting it. He stretched forward, took hold of the document, and lifted it, casting Hugh's hand aside. Hugh watched him closely.