The two old men made a commendable effort to stand erect, but no effort to stand alone. They linked arms and stood shoulder to shoulder. “Show him in,” said Mr Riggs magnificently. “Now we'll fin' out wass in telegram off briny deep,” said Mr Dawes, straddling his legs a little farther apart in order to declare a staunch front. “It's worth waiting up for,” said Mr Riggs. “Abs'lutely,” said his staunch friend. Frederic Brood appeared in the door, stopping short just inside the heavy curtains. There was a momentary picture, such as a stage-director would have arranged. He was still wearing his silk hat and top-coat, and one glove had been halted in the process of removal. Young Brood stared at the group of three, a frank stare of amazement. A crooked smile came to his lips. “Somewhat later than usual, I see,” he said, and the glove came off with a jerk. “What's the matter, Jones? Rebellion?” “No, sir. It's the wireless, sir.” “Wireless?” “Briny deep,” said Mr Dawes, vaguely pointing. “Oh,” said young Brood, crossing slowly to the table. He picked up the envelope and looked at the inscription. “Oh,” said he again in quite a different tone on seeing that it was addressed to him. “From father, I dare say,” he went on, a fine line appearing between his eyebrows. The old men leaned forward, fixing their blear eyes upon the missive. “Le's hear the worst, Freddy,” said Mr Riggs. The young man ran his finger under the flap and deliberately drew out the message. There ensued another picture. As he read, his eyes widened and then contracted; his firm young jaw became set and rigid. Suddenly a short, bitter execration fell from his lips and the paper crumpled in his hand. Without another word he strode to the fireplace and tossed it upon the coals. It flared for a second and was wafted up the chimney, a charred, feathery thing. Without deigning to notice the two old men who had sat up half the night to learn the contents of that wonderful thing from the sea, he whirled on his heel and left the room. One might have noticed that his lips were drawn in a mirthless, sardonic smile, and that his eyes were angry. “Oh, Lordy!” sighed Danbury Dawes, blinking, and was on the point of sitting down abruptly. The arm of Jones prevented. “I never was so insulted in my----” began Joseph Riggs feebly. “Steady, gentlemen,” said Jones. “Lean on me, please.” CHAPTER II James Brood's home was a remarkable one. That portion of the house which rightly may be described as “public” in order to distinguish it from other parts where privacy was enforced, was not unlike any of the richly furnished, old-fashioned places in the lower part of the city where there are still traces left of the Knickerbockers and their times. Dignified, stately, almost gloomy, it was a mansion in which memories dwelt, where the past strode unseen among sturdy things of mahogany and walnut and worn but priceless brocades and silks.