Edgar found more letters awaiting him at his club--letters of the same kind as yesterday’s, which he read with again a totally changed sentiment. Clare had gone into the background, Gussy had come uppermost. He read them eagerly, with his mind on the stretch to see what might be made of them. Everybody was kind. “Tell us what you can do--how we can help you,” they said. After all, it occurred to him now, in the practical turn his mind had taken, “What could he do?” The answer was ready--“Anything.” But then this was a very vague answer, he suddenly felt; and to identify any one thing or other that he could do, was difficult. He was turning over the question deeply in his mind, when a letter, with Lord Newmarch’s big official seal, caught his eye. He opened it hurriedly, hoping to find perhaps a rapid solution of his difficulty there. It ran thus:-- “MY DEAR EARNSHAW, “I am sorry to be obliged to inform you that, after keeping us in a state of uncertainty for about a year, Runtherout has suddenly announced to me that he feels quite well again, and means to resume work at once, and withdraw his resignation. He attributes this fortunate change in his circumstances to Parr’s Life Pills, or something equally venerable. I am extremely sorry for this _contretemps_, which at once defeats my desire of serving you, and deprives the department of the interesting information which I am sure your knowledge of foreign countries would have enabled you to transmit to us. The Queen’s Messengers seem indeed to be in a preternaturally healthy condition, and hold out few hopes of any vacancy. Accept my sincere regrets for this disappointment, and if you can think of anything else I can do to assist you, command my services. “Believe me, dear Earnshaw, “Very truly yours, “NEWMARCH. “P.S.--What would you say to a Consulship?”