Once in the dining-room Fred Bingham took the inkstand and writing materials from the side-table, and then produced from a large pocket-book an envelope upon which he had written Frank Maynard's name and address in a very accurate imitation of the peculiar hand of Captain Bradshaw. In this he enclosed Frank's letter, and, lighting the taper, sealed it with a small seal which was in the drawer of the inkstand, and which bore the three-fingered hand, the crest of the Bradshaws. “There,” he said, with his unpleasant smile, “if that won't keep you apart, Master Frank, I am mistaken; you are a very fine fellow, no doubt, and Alice Heathcote liked you better than she did me; but I don't think you will have much reason to boast in the end. Now, if the old man does but go away for the winter, as he talks about, there is no fear of their coming together again, and he is too proud and too passionate, and Frank is too hot-headed and mighty ever to condescend to make the first advances. I don't think the old boy can live long.” So, putting on his hat he went out, down into Knightsbridge and up the hill, dropping the letter into the post-office at the corner of Wilton Place. Then he sauntered on, smiling pleasantly as he went, and meditating not unflattering thoughts of himself. “Yes, Fred Bingham,” he concluded, “deuced few fellows would have got, as you have, out of about as nasty a scrape as a man could want to get into. Made it turn out all to my advantage; why, I might have tried, and schemed, and flattered the old man, and listened to his endless stories about India, and at most I should only have shared with Frank. Now I am as good as certain of it all. I am a lucky fellow,”—and here he gave a penny to a beggar-woman, who looked after him and blessed him for a pleasant-looking young gentleman—“very lucky; to think of old Walker never mentioning my name! That was a fluke indeed! Savage old brute, who would have thought it of him? Poor Carry.” And here the smile passed away from his face, and he went on angrily, “A little idiot, I would have made her comfortable, and settled her in some snug little place, and she upsets the whole thing. She must have known I never meant to marry her, and why the deuce she could not have done as other girls do, and made the best of it, I can't make out. Instead of that she nearly ruins me. Bah! what fools women are,” and he gave a savage cut with his cane at a dog who was asleep by the railings by the side of the footway. The dog leapt up with a sharp yell, and Fred Bingham went on relieved, and rather liking than otherwise the curses and threats which the dog's master, a little boy with matches, shouted after him. The letter was delivered to Frank as he was sitting with his wife after dinner.