“What a shameful, vile man,” she sobbed at last, “to go about telling stories about poor dear Freddy—the kindest and best fellow in the world. He would not have harmed a worm. If he did do it, I am quite sure it was not his fault. He must have been led on by that shameless, wicked hussy. It was very wrong of him, of course, very wicked and sinful. But not, my dear——” Mr. Bingham broke in, “Nonsense, wicked. If it had been fifty times as wicked I should not have minded; but it was madness, sheer madness.” “Richard, I am shocked at you,” Mrs. Bingham began in a tone of absolute horror. “Well, well, my dear, you know I do not mean that; but I am almost beside myself to think of Fred's madness.” “Ay, madness, indeed,” Mrs. Bingham said; “it must have been just that, Richard, a sudden madness which made him fall into——” “There, there, my dear,” Mr. Bingham said, “that is quite enough for the present; do go away, and let me think over this affair. It is enough to drive me out of my senses. Do go up to your own room and compose yourself. There is no occasion to tell the girls, and the servants, and everyone else about it.” “As if I were a fool, Richard!” Mrs. Bingham began indignantly; but Mr. Bingham waved his hand so impatiently, that she said no more, but rising with an extremely injured air, left the room. As for Mr. Bingham, he walked backwards and forwards on the hearthrug, with the air of a man astounded. Once or twice he sat down at his desk, took up his pen, and then throwing it down with a gesture of almost despair, renewed his walk. As has been said, Mr. Bingham was not a really hard-hearted man. He had very frequently interposed in favour of defaulting tenants, and had endeavoured to mitigate the severe measures Fred was disposed to put in force against them. At any other time he would have been greatly shocked at the news he had heard. Now he quite lost sight of the heartlessness and cruelty of Fred's conduct in the imminence of the danger. His whole thoughts were devoted to the consideration of the best course to be pursued under the circumstances. He could arrive at no conclusion however, except that he had better summon Fred back to town at once. At last, therefore, he sat down in earnest to write, saying, solemnly, as he did so, “Well, after this, I will believe anything. To think that my son, Fred Bingham, could have acted in such an insane way as this—with a girl, too, in his own neighbourhood—and, above all, should have allowed his connection with Captain Bradshaw to be known to her. It is beyond all human comprehension.” With this reflection he drew some paper towards him, and wrote, in his beautifully neat handwriting, in which no one could have detected the least sign of haste or agitation, as follows:—