Ogilvie crushed up the telegram, and turned to the man. "I shall sleep here to-night," Ogilvie said, "and shall be back in the course of the evening." He then went to his bank. It was within half-an-hour of closing. He saw one of the managers who happened to be a friend of his. The manager welcomed him back with effusion, and then made the usual remark about his changed appearance. Ogilvie put his troublesome questions aside. "I had an interview with you just before I went to Queensland," he said, "and I then placed, with a special note for your instructions in case anything happened to me, a sum of money in the bank." "A large sum, Ogilvie--ten thousand pounds." "Yes, ten thousand pounds," repeated Ogilvie. "I want to withdraw the money." "It is a considerable sum to withdraw at once, but as it is not on deposit you can have it." "I thought it only fair to give you a few hours' notice. I shall call for it to-morrow about ten o'clock." "Do you wish to take it in a cheque?" "I think not, I should prefer notes." Ogilvie added a few more words, and then went back to his own house. At last everything was in train. He uttered a sigh of relief. The house looked gloomy and dismantled, but for that very reason it suited his feelings. Some of the furniture had been removed to Silverbel, and the place was dusty. His study in particular looked forbidding, some ashes from the last fire ever made there still remained in the grate. He wondered if anyone had ever entered the study since he last sat there and struggled with temptation and yielded to it. He went up to his own room, which had been hastily prepared for him, and looked around him in a forlorn way. He then quickly mounted another flight of stairs, and found himself at last in the room where his little daughter used to sleep. The moment he entered this room he was conscious of a sensation of comfort. The worldliness of all the rest of the house fell away in this sweet, simply furnished chamber. He sat down near the little empty bed, pressed his hand over his eyes, and gave himself up to thought. Nobody knew how long he sat there. The caretaker and his wife took no notice. They were busy down in the kitchen. It mattered nothing at all to them whether Ogilvie were in the house or not. He breathed a conscious sigh of relief. He was glad to be alone, and the spirit of his little daughter seemed close to him. He had something hard to go through, and terrible agony would be his as he accomplished his task. He knew that he should have to walk through fire, and the fire would not be brief nor quickly over. Step by step his wounded feet must tread. By no other road was there redemption. He did not shirk the inevitable. On the contrary, his mind was made up.