Sir Douglas Gerant, after a lengthened chat with his cousin, mounted to his room, and dressed himself with due regard for the exigencies of polite society. The hard, cynical look that had rested on his face during his conversation with Vane Charteris, and in the political argument with the squire, had now vanished. He looked worn and ill as he walked slowly up and down his room; his eyes were sad; his head drooped. He seemed to be thinking deeply; at last, with a deep-drawn sigh, he seated himself at the table and wrote a letter. It was a summons to his lawyer, bidding him draw up a will, and fixing a day for him to come to Crosbie Castle. This done, Sir Douglas leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes with his hand for several minutes. The entrance of his valet, a man who had been his faithful servant and companion for years, roused him; and, bidding the valet dispatch the letter quickly, Sir Douglas left his room and descended the broad staircase. As he passed through the wide hall to the colonnade, its white pillars, gleaming against the background of green, tinged now with the ruddy gold of the setting sun, made a picture gratifying to his artistic eye. He sauntered on, determining to seek the grounds, when his eyes fell on Stuart’s prostrate form and pale face. In an instant he was kneeling beside the young man, and his clear voice rang out to the butler, who happened to be passing to the dining-room. The man hurried up with some brandy, and Sir Douglas, with almost professional dexterity, lifted Stuart’s head and poured a few drops between the closed lips. He watched the color slowly return, and the eyes open, with a look of anxiety and tenderness on his face. “That is right!” he said, gently, as he met Stuart’s gaze. “Are you hurt?” “My arm!” murmured the young man, faintly, as the butler and Sir Douglas helped him to rise. The baronet cast a keen glance at the right hand, hanging limp and swollen. “You have had an ugly fall,” he said, briefly. “Your arm is broken--how did it happen?” He pushed Stuart gently into a chair near at hand, and, while he spoke, he deftly cut away the slight tennis sleeve from the wounded limb with a pair of scissors taken from his pocket. “I can’t quite remember,” Stuart replied, speaking with an effort, and passing his left hand over his eyes. “I came an awful cropper, I know, and must have banged my head. Is the arm broken? If so, you had better send for Metcalf and have it set.” The butler was moving away; but Sir Douglas stopped him. “There is no need to send to the village--I can manage this. Go up to my room and send down my man; it is not the first time he has helped me in this sort of thing.” Stuart lay back in his chair; he was still feeling faint and weak. He caught Sir Douglas’ eye, and smiled a little.