Mr Hadleigh spent the rest of that day in his library. He was writing, but not letters. At intervals he would rise and pace the floor, as if agitated by what he wrote. Then he seemed to force himself to sit down again at the desk and continue writing, and would presently repeat the former movement. By the time that Philip returned, several sheets of closely written manuscript had been carefully locked away in a deed-box, and the box was locked away in a safe which stood in the darkest corner of the room. After dinner he desired Philip to come into the library as soon as he had finished his cigar. Although he did not smoke himself, he did not object to the habit in others. ‘Something queer about the governor to-night,’ said Coutts, sipping his wine and smoking leisurely. ‘I have noticed him several times lately looking as if he had got a fit of the blues or dyspepsia at least, yet I don’t know how that can be with a man who is so careful of his digestion. He ought to come into town oftener.’ ‘Anything wrong in town?’ inquired Philip, and in his tone there was a note of consideration for his father: in that of Coutts there was none. ‘Things never were better since I have known the business. That is not the cause of his queer humour, whatever it may be. Might be first touch of gout.’ Philip rose and threw away his cigar. He did not like his brother’s manner when he spoke in this manner of their parent. On entering the library, he found it almost in darkness; for the curtains were partly drawn and the lamps were not lit. For a moment he could not see his father; but presently discovered him standing on the hearth, his arms crossed on the broad mantel-shelf, and his brow resting on them. He turned slowly, and his face was in deep shadow, so that its expression could not be distinguished. ‘I told them I did not want lights yet,’ he said, and there was a huskiness in his voice which was very unusual, as it was rather metallic in its clearness. ‘Will you excuse it, and sit down?’ ‘Certainly, sir; but I hope there is nothing seriously wrong. I trust you are not unwell?’ There was no answer for a moment, and the dark outline of the figure was like a mysterious silhouette. Then: ‘I am not particularly well at present. The matter which I wish to speak to you about is serious; but I believe there is nothing wrong in it, and that we can easily come to an agreement about it. Will you sit down?’ Philip obeyed, marvelling greatly as to what this mysterious business could be which seemed to disturb his father so much, making him speak and act so unlike himself. (_To be continued._) THE FIRE OF FRENDRAUGHT.