"Owes a few thousands perhaps," Keane had replied, with an ill-concealed sneer. "They all do it. A post-obit would clear that up. His brother can't live for ever. Sir Digby will be a lord, you know, on his brother's death." "I'll tell you what," Richards had gone so far as to exclaim one day: "if I were you I'd pay Digby's debts for him. Ten thou., I reckon, would do it. But I shouldn't marry my only daughter to a beggar!" Keane turned on him sharply. "Richards," he said, as calmly as he could, "I knew a gentleman once who made an immense fortune by a very simple process." "Indeed; how?" "By minding his own business." Then Keane cackled over his ledger. Richards said no more. But the idea of Keane, of all men, paying off a future son-in-law's debts was too absurd. When Richards went to Keane's house a few days after Digby's incarceration, he found his partner in the throes of packing. He was going to Italy for a time with Gerty, and of course Mary would accompany her. Months went by, and many a long delightful letter did Richards receive from Gerty, and from Mary too, the latter always ending with "luv and sweet kisses." Then came a final letter. They were coming home. Alas! the ship never reached England. She was captured by a Don, and all were made prisoners. Keane could have bought his liberty if he had cared to. He preferred to wait, and waiting--died. A few weeks afterwards poor lonely Gerty returned, and Mary. Richards constituted himself Miss Keane's guardian. Indeed it had been Keane's last wishes that he should do so. And, strange to say, the ruling passion had manifested itself strongly in death; for by the help of a priest he had written a letter to Richards, praying him, for the sake of their long acquaintanceship and friendship, to see that Gerty married Sir Digby. He died, he said, peacefully, knowing she would yet be Lady Auld. "A dying man's last request," said Richards to himself, "ought to be attended to; but--" Then he solemnly placed the letter in the fire, and it was cremated. Sir Digby made himself as comfortable as possible in the Fleet. Richards did not think it safe he should come out. Gerty was a strange girl. Her heart bled for the poor man, as she called him. For sake of her father's memory, there was no denying that she might even yet sacrifice herself. D'Orsay paid many visits to Sir Digby in prison. He really acted like a true friend, and did all he could for him. He had even gone to see his old brother, and come back, figuratively speaking, with a finger in his mouth. "No good in that quarter," he told Sir Digby bluntly. "Says you're a spendthrift and a ne'er-do-weel, and that he means to live for twenty years yet; and 'pon honour, Digby, he looks as if he could. I did hear too that he was looking out for a wife." * * * * * "I shall go and see my hero in his dark dungeon, in his prison cell, in his chains and misery."