"Just wait one moment, will you?" he said, jumping down from his stool. "There was a letter from Yorkshire this morning which I haven't seen yet. I'll fetch it from the governor's room and see what it's about." I took a seat, and he vanished into the inner office. Presently he reappeared smiling. "Lucky thing I noticed the postmark of this letter," he remarked. "Strikes me it's just what you want. Listen," and he read it out: "'Devereux Court, Yorkshire. "'Colonel Sir Francis Devereux----" "Hullo! what's the matter with you?" he broke off suddenly. I mastered myself with a quick effort. "I'm all right," I answered, a little hoarsely. "It's a trifle hot in here, that's all. Go on." He began again-- "'Colonel Sir Francis Devereux is in want of a young man to act under his present agent and collaborate with him in the management of his estate. Applicant must have some knowledge of farming and surveying, and must be a gentleman. Credentials and unexceptionable references required. Salary £250 a year and a cottage, rent free.' "There, Mr. Arbuthnot, how would that do for you?" "Nothing could suit me better," I exclaimed--so eagerly that the young man looked at me surprised. "To whom have I to apply?" He consulted the letter again. "Mr. Benson, solicitor, 19, Bedford Row, has authority to engage you. You had better go and see him, I should think." I thanked him and hurried out. So nervous was I lest some one else should precede me and secure the better chance that I jumped into a stray hansom and was driven straight to Mr. Benson's office. There I was informed, to my great satisfaction, that Mr. Benson was in, and disengaged, and in a few minutes I was shown into his room. He was sitting at his desk when I entered, a short, clean-shaven, grey-haired man, with a keen but not unkindly face. He motioned me to a seat, and kept his eyes fixed steadfastly upon me whilst I explained my mission. When I had finished he took out a bunch of keys from his pocket, and carefully unlocked a small drawer in his desk. For a full minute he seemed to be examining something there, glancing up at me more than once. Then he took it and passed it across the table to me. "Do you recognise that, Mr. Arbuthnot?" he asked, quietly. Recognise it? How could I help it? It was a photograph--and the photograph of my father. I leaned back in my chair, agitated and disappointed. Mr. Benson watched me for awhile in silence. "I see that you are in mourning, Mr. Devereux," he said suddenly, noticing it for the first time. "Your father is well, I hope?" I pulled myself together, and answered him-- "I am in mourning for my mother, Mr. Benson. I can't say that my father is well, but he is not ill that I know of." The lawyer was sitting with his head resting upon his elbow, and his eyes fixed upon the photograph. "Poor Mr. Herbert--poor Mr. Herbert!" he said to himself, in a low tone.