“Well, well, every one to his taste, every one to his taste,” Captain Bradshaw said, evidently thinking of something else, and then sat in moody thought. Fred Bingham looked at him in astonishment. What could this mean? Did his uncle intend to keep him in ignorance of his knowledge of the affair of Carry, or was it possible that he did not know after all—that Stephen Walker had only intended to frighten him, and had not been to Captain Bradshaw at all? This hope was dispelled by the old man's next remark. “The fact is, Fred, I am out of sorts. I have heard a piece of news which has upset me terribly.” “Indeed, uncle?” was all Fred could say. “Yes, Fred, a very bad affair; so bad that I can hardly realise it.” He paused again. “What is it, uncle?” Fred asked, with an effort; for he was far more alarmed at this tone of quiet sadness on the part of his uncle than he would have been at the most furious burst of passion. “Yes, Fred; I will tell you the circumstances. An old man called upon me the night before last. He was half beside himself with grief and anger. The man's name was Walker—Stephen Walker. I remembered the name, because I had heard it before under peculiar circumstances. One day last winter, it seems he slipped down in Knightsbridge, and your cousin Frank picked him up just as an omnibus was going to run over him. Perhaps you remember hearing of it?” Fred could only nod. His uncle had mentioned the fact to him with great glee at the time, but had not mentioned the name, and he was until now ignorant that it was Stephen Walker whom Frank had rescued. He did not, however, speak; he was too anxiously preparing for the blow which he felt sure his uncle was reserving as the climax for this prolix story. “Some little time afterwards, Frank came in one evening, and told me he had been to see this man, and that he had a pretty daughter—a very pretty daughter. I told Frank he had better not go there again—it was dangerous—and Frank saw it, and promised not to go again.” The drops of perspiration stood on Fred Bingham's forehead as his uncle went on. This slow approaching to catastrophe was almost more than he could bear, and he had a great mind to throw himself at his uncle's feet and cry for mercy; but before he could determine upon the expediency of such a move, his uncle went on. “The night before last, as I told you, this man came here to cry for justice and vengeance. He had just come up from Gravesend, where he had been to see the body of his daughter, who had drowned herself in the Thames, and who had been seduced under promise of marriage by that infernal scoundrel, Frank Maynard!” Fred Bingham had half risen from his seat with the intention of throwing himself at his uncle's knees, when the substitution of Frank's name for his own astonished him into a sharp cry of surprise. “Frank Maynard!”