"Digby used to come down and see me oftener than he does now," said Sir Marcus, laying down his pen again and passing his hand across his brow. "I don't like his being away so long, and the dear little boy too; why don't they come and see me? Got a wife? Oh, to be sure, yes; my memory don't seem so strong as it was, somehow: to be sure, a wife, yes. Nice little thing, very; wonder if she would know how many we get yearly from Holland? My hand gets more tired than it used, though it wouldn't do to say so; people are so ready to talk about an old man breaking up before he's out of the sixties. Why, I walked up from the post-office in eight minutes and a half this morning; I can beat the youngsters now, eh? I wish Joan would come and catch hold of this accursed letter, it keeps drifting so far away. I always wonder what made her take Digby; funny fellow, Digby. What am I saying? It's Jack who is her husband, isn't it? I've been writing too much to-day, that's what it is. I'm only a little queer, but--I wish Joan would come and finish my letter for me. Why won't Digby bring her down now? Let's get hold of the whiskey; that's what I want to set me straight, of course. What nonsense they are talking; men don't fall to pieces when they are sixty-four. I can walk with the best of them, eh, Joan, my dear?" There were three people destined for Murville Manor in the 6.45 from Euston that evening. Two of them were in separate third-class smoking carriages at the end of the train; the other sat in a first-class compartment. They were Digby, and Jack, and Lady Joan, all summoned by the same telegram, and all obeying the summons unknown to each other, and with the greatest speed possible. The two brothers, singularly enough, each spent the greater part of the two hours' journey in reading and re-reading a letter, which was written, in both cases, in a thick, rather illegible handwriting. The musician, as he took his from the already opened envelope, gave a half-conscious look round the carriage before he read it. It dated from the day before, and had no heading to it:-- "I think on consideration that the new form of diversion you proposed to me the other night would not work so well as we thought. So I am not going to entertain it any longer. You will probably blame me for my vacillation; but then, you should not have established a precedent for vacillation in the 'Relton Arms,' four years ago. After all, there is nothing left but the book; and I am going to be away, and alone, until I have written it. Don't be alarmed. I am not going to soak it with my own experiences. "JOAN." His younger brother, in the other carriage, did not look at any one when he took his letter from his breast-pocket and unfolded it. It was very limp, and looked as though it had been unfolded many times before. It was dated two days earlier:--