‘So much the worse. The race will be ruined! However, we won’t talk about that now. While you are a bachelor, there is still hope; and you shall have your thousand a year very soon, unless I am vastly mistaken.—Now I am off to see Fegan; so good-bye. If I go to Scotland to-night, you shall hear from me to-morrow. All depends upon Fegan’s report of the great M‘Dum.’ II.—THE ENVOY EXTRAORDINARY. Fegan’s report must have been at least to some extent favourable, if not actually encouraging, for that evening Tom Checkstone left town by the limited mail for Scotland. For reasons that will presently appear, he took with him half-a-dozen boxes of very fine cigars and a considerable quantity of personal luggage; and, contrary to his usual habit, he travelled first-class. Early on the morning of the next day but one, after having spent a portion of the previous night at the _Bagpipes Inn_, Aberdumble, he hired the best conveyance in the town, and was driven over to Balquhalloch. Balquhalloch Castle, as all Scotchmen and most Englishmen are no doubt aware, is a straggling building that dates back to the beginning of the fifteenth century. It occupies an isolated position, and consists of a grim gray keep, surrounded by a circle of stables, store-rooms, and servants’ quarters. It was to this ancient abode that Mr Tom Checkstone was driven. The carriage passed through the frowning gateway of the castle into a large courtyard, in which several servants in livery stood ready to receive it. Tom alighted, and, acting upon instructions which he had obtained from George Fegan, asked to see Mr M‘Dum. His card was carried to that functionary, who at once professed his readiness to see his visitor in his private room. Thither, therefore, Tom was conducted; and scarcely had he taken a seat ere the Steward of the Household entered. Mr M‘Dum was a short, stout, red-faced man of about fifty years of age. He was negligently dressed in a brown velvet shooting-suit, and he was smoking a very large cigar. ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked bluntly. ‘I have come down,’ said Tom, ‘with an introduction from Mr George Fegan of Figblossom Buildings, London.’ ‘Yes; I know him,’ ejaculated M‘Dum abruptly. ‘And I wish,’ continued Tom, ‘to apply for a secretaryship which, as I see by an advertisement in the _Morning Post_, is vacant.’ ‘Well, sit down,’ said M‘Dum, as he threw himself into the most comfortable chair in the room; ‘and we will talk the matter over.’ And he proceeded to help himself to a stiff glass of whisky from a decanter that stood upon a table at his side. ‘I think that I possess all the necessary qualifications,’ began Tom; ‘but of that you must be the judge. Perhaps this letter from Mr Fegan will give you as much information as I can,’ and he handed a sealed missive to the Steward. M‘Dum took it, and having opened it, read aloud: