“You are welcome to guess.” He flicked a folded note across the table. It was addressed in pencil to “T. H. Hayward, Esq.,” marked “Urgent,” had evidently been torn from a notebook, and had been sealed with a scrap of stamp paper. “The servant found it under the hall door, about an hour ago. That’s all I can tell you.” Colin opened it, and his face burned as he read— “A friend advises you that your youngest son and the post-office girl were kissing in the wood to-night.” “Well,” said Mr. Hayward, “do you know the writing?” His son made a gesture of negation. “May I keep this?” he managed to say presently. “No,” said the other, holding out his hand for the paper. “I will keep it—and God help the person who wrote it, when I find him or her!” Next moment he resumed his cold manner and incisive tone. “All that, however, does not exonerate you, though I am not going to dwell on the unsavoury subject of your disgrace—” “There is no disgrace!” hotly cried Colin. His father smiled wearily. “Apparently we shall not agree on the meaning of the word. Now may I ask: what are you going to do?” “As I told you, I am going to London,” replied Colin, holding himself in. “And then?” “I don’t know yet.” “Very well.” Mr. Hayward opened a drawer and took out a small bundle of notes. He threw them on to the table, saying, “A hundred pounds. Do as you like, but don’t ask for more—for your own sake.” “Father,” cried Colin, his anger lost in bitter humiliation. “I swear I did my best at college, only I wasn’t fitted for—” “We have already discussed that. By the way, I would suggest that you make it convenient to leave here early in the morning instead of to-morrow night, and so spare, in some measure, the feelings of your mother and sisters—” “You are heartless! I will leave the house now!” “Please no, unless you desire to start a scandal among the servants, and another in the village.” “Oh, you are worse than heartless; you are unjust. . . . But I will wait till the morning. Good-bye.” Colin turned and moved towards the door. “Stay! You have forgotten your money.” Without looking back Colin went out. When Mr. Hayward went to bed, half-an-hour later, he left—deliberately—the notes lying on his writing-table. At 6.30 a.m. Colin entered a closed carriage, and with his modest baggage was driven to the station. There had been no farewells, and on the whole he did not regret their absence, for he knew they would have been highly seasoned with reproaches and unwelcome advice. He took a ticket for Glasgow. Having heard the carriage drive away, Mr. Hayward in his dressing gown came down to the library. Where the notes had been he found a scrap of paper— I.O.U. One hundred pounds. C. H. Hayward.