’He is dressed, Sampy darling, and in the parlour. I’m going in there too. We expect the carriage shortly. The bridesmaids will be picked up at their own doors, but our carriage is coming here.’ He did not wait to hear her, but rushed into the drawing-room. ’By Grogs! Sampy,’ exclaimed Mr. Trampleasure, ’what brings you here? I thought you were to remain in charge at Ophir, and give us your visits, as the wisest of men said, like angel visits, few and far between. I want you there, and not here, boy.’ ’Father, I must speak with you instantly, and alone,’ he added, as he saw his mother come rustling and sniffing in at the door. ’Let us go into the office.’ ’Nothing wrong with Ophir, lad, eh?’ asked the old man, his colour changing. ’Everything,’ answered Sampson. ’For heaven’s sake lead on. Not a moment is to be lost.’ Mr. Trampleasure was arrayed in evening dress, with a very white tight neckcloth, and very stiff projecting frills to his shirt. He was in a fine black cloth dress coat. His hair was as white as his frills. He took up a plated branch candlestick, and led the way. His hand shook. ’Take care, Tram, darling,’ said Mrs. Trampleasure, ’you be a joggling of the wax all over the carpet, and it do take a time getting of it out with a hiron and blotting paper.’ He opened the door of the office and went in. He had been working, and smoking, and drinking there that afternoon; there was a fire burning red on the hearth. The room reeked with rum and tobacco. The old man put the candle down, and then stayed himself with one hand on the table. ’By Grogs!’ he said, ’you’ve given me a turn, Sampy. What do you mean by saying that everything is wrong with Ophir?’ ’I mean what I say,’ answered the young man. ’Ophir is smashed up. That cursed fool Herring has found all out. Flamank knows also. They saw me salting the stream.’ The old man’s face turned purple. ’That’s not the worst—there’s worse behind,’ continued young Sampson. He hesitated a moment, and looked at his father. Mr. Trampleasure was feeling about him with the disengaged hand for his arm-chair. He gripped the table with the left. He tried to speak; he opened his mouth and shut it again. It was horrible to see him, like a fish, gasping, and nothing proceeding from his lips. ’It must come out. But first; father—we shall have to run for it. I especially. Where is the money?’ The old man pointed with a faltering hand in the direction of a strong box, let into the wall. Then he put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a bunch of keys. He tried to indicate a single key, but could not take his other hand from the table. The bunch fell on the floor.