"You must tell me your story for the last few years," he said; "but put that case in your pocket before you begin. There are some regalias in it, of the calibre you used to fancy, and--a couple of hundreds, in notes, to go on with. You dear, silly old Hugh! Don't shake your head and look scrupulous. Why, I won thrice as much of you at _écarté_ in the week before that miserable Derby, and you never asked for your revenge. You should have it now if either you or I were in cue for play. Seriously--I want you to feel at ease before you begin to talk; I want you to feel that your troubles are over, and that you never need go near that awful _guet-à-pens_ again. I've got a permanent arrangement in my head, that will suit you, I hope, and set you right for ever and a day. Hugh, you know if our positions were reversed, I should ask you for help just as frankly as I expect you will take it from me." Crichton shivered all over, worse than he had done out in the cold March evening. "Put the case down," he said hoarsely. "It will be time enough to talk about that and your good intentions half-an-hour hence. I'll tell you what I have been doing, if you care to hear." Now, though the story interested Wyverne sincerely, it would be simple cruelty to inflict it on you; with very slight variations, it might have applied to half the _viveurs_ that have been ruined during the last hundred years. Still, not many men could have listened unmoved to such a tale, issuing from the mouth of an ancient friend. When he had come to a certain point in his story, the speaker paused abruptly. "Poor Hugh!" Alan said. "How you must have suffered. Take breath now; I'm certain your throat wants moistening, and the claret has been waiting on you this quarter of an hour. It's my turn to speak; I'm impatient to tell you my plan. The agent at Castle Dacre is so wonderfully old and rheumatic, that it makes one believe in miracles when he climbs on the back of his pony. I would give anything to have a decent excuse for pensioning him off. I shall never live there much, and the property is so large, that it ought to be properly looked after. If you don't mind taking care of a very dreary old house, there's £800 a year, and unlimited lights and coals, (they used to burn about ten tons a week, I believe,) and all the snipe and fowl you like to shoot, waiting for you. I shall be the obliged party if you'll take it; for it will ease my conscience, which at present is greatly troubled. The work is not so hard, and you've head enough for anything." Not pleasure or gratitude, but rather vexation and confusion showed themselves in Crichton's face. "Can't you have patience!" he muttered, irritably. "Didn't I ask you to wait till you had heard all? There's more, and worse, to tell; though I don't know, yet, how much harm was done."