But when the two doctors arrived from Whitborough, Oliver Rane found he was not wanted. They were professionals of long standing, men of note in their local arena; and showed themselves condescendingly patronizing to the young practitioner. Dr. Rane had rather a strong objection to be patronized: he withdrew, and went to Mr. North's parlour. It was a dingy room; the shaded lamp on the table not sufficing to light it up. Red moreen curtains were drawn before the large French window that opened to the flower-garden at the side. Mr. North was standing before the fire. He was a little shrivelled man with stooping shoulders, his scanty hair smoothed across a low, broad forehead, his lips thin and querulous; his eyes, worn and weary now, had once been mild and loving as his daughter Bessy's. Time and care and (as some people said) his second wife, had changed him. Oliver Rane thought he had never seen him look so shrunken, nervous, and timid as to-night. "What a pity it was that you should have mentioned the letter to him, Mr. North!" began the doctor, speaking at once of what lay uppermost in his thoughts. "Mentioned the letter to him!--why, it concerned him," was the surprised answer. "But I never gave a thought to its having this effect upon him." "What was in the letter, sir?" was the doctor's next question, put with considerable gloom, and after a long silence. "You can read it, Oliver." Opening the document, he handed it to Dr. Rane. It looked like any ordinary letter. The doctor took it to the lamp. "Mr. North, "Pardon a friend who ventures to give you a caution. Your eldest son is in some sort of embarrassment, and is drawing bills in conjunction with Alexander, the surgeon. Perhaps a word from you would arrest this: it is too frequently the first step of a man's downward career--and the writer would not like to see Edmund North enter on such." Thus, abruptly and without signature, ended the fatal letter. Dr. Rane slowly folded it, and left it on the table. "Who could have written it?" he murmured. "Ah, there it is!" rejoined Mr. North. "Edmund said no one could have done it but Alexander." Standing over the fire, to which he had turned, Dr. Rane warmed his hands. The intensely hot day had given place to a cold night. His red-brown eyes took a dreamy gaze, as he mentally revolved facts and suppositions. In his private opinion, judging only from the contents of the letter, Mr. Alexander was the last man who would have been likely to write it. "It is not like Alexander's writing," observed Mr. North. "Not in the least." "But of course this is in a thoroughly disguised hand." "Most anonymous letters are so, I expect. Is it true that he and your son have been drawing bills together?"