Henry inquired where all the money had gone; and, after some beating about the bush, he discovered that of late years, for the most part, it had been absorbed by his dead brother’s racing debts. After this revelation he held his tongue upon the matter. In addition to these burdens there were unsatisfied claims against Reginald’s estate amounting to over a thousand pounds; and, to top up with, three of the principal tenants had given notice to leave at the approaching Michaelmas, and no applicants for their farms were forthcoming. Also the interest on the mortgages was over a year in arrear. When everything had been explained, Henry spoke with irritation: “The long and the short of it is that we are bankrupt, and badly bankrupt. Why on earth did you force me to leave the Navy? At any rate I could have helped myself to some sort of a living there. Now I must starve with the rest.” Lady Graves sighed and wiped her eyes. The sigh was for their broken fortunes, the tear for the son who had ruined them. Sir Reginald, who was hardened to money troubles, did not seem to be so deeply affected. “Oh, it is not so bad as that, my boy,” he said, almost cheerfully. “Your poor brother always managed to find a way out of these difficulties when they cropped up, and I have no doubt that you will be able to do the same. For me the matter no longer has much personal interest, since my day is over; but you must do the best for yourself, and for your mother and sister. And now I think that I will go to bed, for business tires me at night.” When his father and mother had gone Henry lit his pipe. “Who holds these mortgages?” he asked of his sister Ellen, who sat opposite to him, watching him curiously across the fire. “Mr. Levinger,” she answered. “He and his daughter.” “What, my father’s mysterious friend, the good-looking man who used to be agent for the property when I was a boy?” “I remember: he had his daughter with him—a pale-faced, quiet girl.” “Yes; but do not disparage his daughter, Henry.” “Why not?” “Because it is a mistake to find fault with one’s future wife. That way salvation lies, my dear brother. She is an heiress, and more than half in love with you, Henry. No, it is not a mistake—I know it for a fact. Now, perhaps, you understand why it was necessary that you should come home. Either you must follow the family tradition and marry an heiress, Miss Levinger or some other, or this place will be foreclosed on and we may all adjourn to the workhouse.” “So that is why I was sent for,” said Henry, throwing down his pipe: “to be sold to this lady? Well, Ellen, all I have to say is that it is an infernal shame!” And, turning, he went to bed without even bidding her good night.