For an hour Fred Bingham paced up and down upon the sands. Here were all his plans and hopes destroyed, and all by his own carelessness. How could he have been fool enough to tell Carry Walker about his uncle? Still she had promised not to tell her father, and even had he supposed that her father might have found it out, who could have dreamt that that old imbecile would have ever turned round and become dangerous. Everything had turned out unfortunate. There was Carry. Well, yes, he was very sorry for her, very sorry indeed. But what did she do it for? It really looked as if it was just out of perverseness, when he had intended to have acted kindly to her, and made her comfortable, thus to upset everything, drive her father into a sort of madness, and destroy all his chances in life. It was too provoking. However, one thing was evident, he must take his father's advice, and go up at once to London. He must see Captain Bradshaw—of course it would be a most terrible interview—but it must be got through. Perhaps after a time he might be able to put matters in a better light. Of course any promise of marriage must be denied. There were no proofs whatever of that, except that last letter of his, and any assertion Carry might have made. He should of course plead temptation. Yes, it was a terribly bad business, but something might be got out of the fire. Thus thinking, he at last went back to his hotel, ate a hearty breakfast, and told his wife that he must go up to London on imperative business for twenty-four hours. He said that she must stay where she was, for the house would not be ready for them for another week, and she would only be in the way. He should be back the next evening without fail. So, after breakfast, he went up to London. CHAPTER XIII. A DESPERATE GAME. FRED BINGHAM, on his arrival in town, drove to the office where he had telegraphed to his father to meet him. The Binghams' office was in Salisbury Street, Strand. There they had two rooms on the ground floor. The one behind was occupied by two articled pupils and a clerk, whose business it was to draw the details of plans and designs, and to make calculations as to quantities and estimates. The front room was a comfortable office. Here was a large drawing table, where Mr. Bingham designed and drew plans. Here was his writing table piled with engineering works. Upon the walls hung architectural and engineering plans of all sorts, façades of churches, plans of hospitals, railway bridges, viaducts, and many other things. Here, too, piled on shelves or leaning against the walls, were plaster friezes, drain pipes, encaustic tiles, valves, short sections of railway rails, models of bridges and tunnels, and many other engineering odds and ends. Mr. Bingham was standing in his favourite position on the hearthrug, with his back to the empty fireplace, when Fred entered. “Well, Fred, I must congratulate you on having made as nice a mess of your affairs as could well be imagined.”