A knock on the outer door made no impression upon him, but a second, louder, more insistent one brought a, "Why in thunder don't you come in, and stop your infernal racket?" from his overwrought nerves. Drew entered. His fur coat had snow flakes on it. A coming storm had sent its messengers. For a moment Filmer looked at his visitor with unseeing eyes, then his consciousness travelled back from its far place, and a soft welcome spread over the drawn face. So glad was he to see Drew that he forgot to be patronizing. He was weakly overjoyed. Drew, with a keen, comprehensive glance, took in the scene and something of what it meant. He smiled kindly, and pulled a chair up before the hearth. "Been away Filmer, or going?" he asked as he sat down and flung off his coat and fur hat. "Both," Filmer returned, and although his voice was hard and strained, Drew detected a welcome to him in the tone. "I wanted you up at the bungalow," he said quietly; "the girls cannot get along without you. It's Christmas Eve," he added quietly, "to-morrow's the big day, you know." "I shan't be here." The words came harshly. "See here, Drew," Jock flung himself about and leaned toward his guest, his long, thin hands clasped closely and outstretched. "I wanted you to-night more than any one, but God, could know. I couldn't come to you--but you've come to me at the right moment." "I'm glad of that, Filmer." "I'm not much of a hand for holding back what I want to give out," Jock rushed on, "and I ain't much of an orator. What I'm going to tell you, Drew, has been corked up for over ten years--it's ripe for opening--will you share it?" "Can you ask that, Filmer?" The two men looked steadily at each other. "Did you ever hear of Jasper Filmer on the Pacific Coast?" Jock asked suddenly. "Yes; he died a week ago. The papers were full of it. We noticed the name--" Drew bent forward--"and wondered." "I'm his son. There ain't much to tell. It's a common enough yarn. The world's full of the like. It's only when you tackle the separate ones that they seem to differ. The old man--made himself. That kind is either hard as nails or soft as mush. My governor had the iron in his. He banked everything on--me--and I wasn't up to the expectation. I was made out of the odds and ends that were left out of his constitution--and we didn't get on. My mother--" Jock pulled himself together; "she was the sort those self-made men generally hanker after, all lady, and pretty and dainty. You know the kind?" Drew nodded. His face was ashen.