Thus it was in no amiable mood the Baronet once more found himself in his old quarters, in the gay and pleasant city which the clever diplomacy of Lord Palmerston helped to raise to the dignity of a European capital and the seat of a monarchy, which if not ancient is at any rate very respectable. His first object was to keep Mrs. Smith quiet, which, at a considerable cost, he succeeded in doing. Then he dined at the club, drank heavily, played high, lost his money and his temper, and became so insulting to one of the barons with whom he played, that when he got back to the hotel he found there a challenge awaiting him to fight a duel. This was rather more than he had bargained for, but he could not help himself. As an officer—though a retired one—he felt that he could not refuse. A hot-headed Irishman acted as his second, and was so charmed with the idea of the _éclat_ of having to do with a duel, though only in the capacity of a second, that instead of doing all that he could to put it off, he did all that was in his power to promote it. Accordingly it was arranged that the aggrieved parties should meet in an obscure village on the French frontier, where they would be sure to be unobserved. The Belgian baron’s aim was deadly, and Sir Robert Strahan was no more. Short, very short had been his reign, and now it was all over. Speedily was the news telegraphed to the Hall, where everyone was shocked at the unexpected catastrophe. Her ladyship grieved deeply, the girls were in despair. It was hard, just as Providence was opening up a way for their good, and they had conquered the difficulties of a continental exile—it was hard to have all the bitterness of the hated past revived. In due time the body was brought back, and there was another stately funeral and another nine days’ wonder. At first everyone attributed the Baronet’s death to an accident. Such was the version which it seemed wise for many reasons—family, religious, and commercial—to circulate. But in time the real truth leaked out, first in private letters and then in the society journals; and there came a run on the Bank, which the partners were not prepared to meet, and which they could not have met had they been prepared. And there was no alternative but to put up the shutters and to close the doors. Deep and dire was the consternation spread all over Sloville when it was known that the Bank doors were shut. Sloville was a rising place. Some spirited individual or other was always introducing new industries or putting up new buildings. Speculation was rife; and the leading tradesmen had all large accounts at the Bank, as well as the leading hotel-keepers. All the farmers of the district, as their fathers before them, banked in an establishment so ancient, so well-connected, so renowned.