Bertram takes the letter and looks at it without curiosity. “It is sure to be something unpleasant. I never heard of Folliott and Hake.” Fanshawe laughs. “I have; many a time. They have been solicitors in more than one libel case, of which the _Torch_ was defendant. Come, open the letter. See what it says.” Bertram opens and reads it: “Only that they have a matter of great importance to communicate to me. I really have no idea what it can be. People think so many things important which are of infinitesimal insignificance.” “You will best correct your ignorance by allowing Mr. Folliott to enter and explain himself.” “I am so opposed to all lawyers on principle.” “So am I, as I am opposed to small-pox, or bicycle riders, or yellow fogs; but they are not to be avoided in this life, and it is neither polite or politic to keep these highly respectable solicitors waiting like sweeps. Critchett, beg Mr. Folliott to enter. I will leave you, Bertram.” “No, no; for goodness’ sake stay. I may want some advice.” “You not unfrequently do. But you never follow it when given. Pray be civil.” A few moments later Mr. Folliott enters; a bland, white-haired, portly old gentleman, a little ruffled at having been left so long at the foot of the stairs. “I beg your pardon, Mr.--Mr.--Folliott,” says Bertram, looking at the letter. “I had, in fact, not opened this note of yours. It is a bad habit I have of leaving letters unread.” “It was Sheridan’s, sir,” says the lawyer, pointedly. “It did not bring him good fortune.” He catches sight of Fanshawe, and his amiable countenance assumes the startled and displeased expression of a cat’s face, when the cat suddenly perceives a bull terrier. “I naturally awaited you, Mr. Bertram, or a communication from you, all the day,” he says, in an affronted tone. “Hearing nothing I thought it best to come myself. You are perhaps unaware that the Prince of Viana is dead.” “I never heard of the individual,” says Bertram. “Who was he?” “He was your first cousin. You may know him better as the son of Mr. Horace Errington.” “Oh! The son of my mother’s brother? We never knew him. There was a family feud.” “But you will remember to have heard that his father made great wealth in the Abruzzi through copper mines, was nationalised, and was ennobled by Victor Emmanuel. The family feud was chiefly on account of his connection with commerce and his change of country.” “Precisely.” “I regret to inform you that your cousin is dead, at thirty-three years of age, killed by a wild boar when hunting in the Pontine marshes; he has left you, Mr. Bertram, his sole and exclusive heir.” Bertram stares at him. “What! you must be joking, Mr. Folliott!” The old gentleman takes off his gold spectacles and puts them on again in extreme irritation.