And, indeed, looking back in calmness to the tumultuous thoughts of that day, I have ever been thankful that his stolid good sense came to our aid. It must not be forgotten that Grier the elder had small experience of Karl’s sixth sense. He remembered the events of early years in India, of course, and had heard of Constantine’s rescue at the time of its occurrence, while Mrs. Grier’s faithful reports told him that his son remained a prodigy. But was there ever an only son who, if ordinarily intelligent, had not some wonderful attribute known only to his parents? “So many single chicks so many prodigies,” the proverb might run. And since the tea-planter quitted India he had been exceedingly prosperous in his financial undertakings, mostly connected with the ever-expanding tea trade. He was one of the wise men who resisted the temptation to grow the coarse leaf on his plantations, and now he was reaping the reward, as the “large output” school was discredited, whereas Grier’s “fine growth” companies were amassing wealth. Hence, a mind which was wont to be receptive of esoteric ideas during the long Calcutta nights of past years was now more occupied with the affairs of commerce. He was piling up money, and for what? To enable Karl to enter Parliament, marry well, and earn a peerage. That is one form of heredity, when the father’s ambitions center wholly in the son. So Grier senior valued foresight, but, as our cousins say, he had no use for “far sight” as practised by Karl. I suspected that he was profoundly annoyed with me for seeming to encourage the exercise of the telegnomic sense (wherein he was misled by the accident of our coming together again owing to its revelations), and it was a proud moment for me when, not long ago, he confessed his error and recanted his opinions. However, he was a rock to which we clung for salvation during that storm-tossed afternoon in a Liverpool hotel, for we had barely resolved to take the next train to Oxford and London respectively, than there came a telegram addressed to Karl. He opened and read the message with a strange listlessness. “I was expecting something of the kind,” he said, handing the slip of pink paper to his father. “I knew it had ended; I knew it on the landing-stage.” The telegram was from Maggie. It ran: “Sympathize with you in dreadful event. We leave England to-night. Farewell.” “What does it mean?” I asked incredulously. “Why is she going so suddenly? How does she know anything about Constantine? And what has ended?” Karl turned aside and pretended to look out of the window. The soft-hearted fellow was ashamed to let us see the tears in his eyes. I examined the telegram more closely. It had been a long time on the way, nearly an hour. It was despatched before any one on the landing-stage (save three people, none of whom could communicate with her) had the least inkling of the Armenian’s suicide.