Edgar Cunningham got somewhat the better of his headache as the day went on, and late in the afternoon insisted on getting out into the fresh air on the terrace, in the hope that Wyn might make some excuse for coming up to speak to him. He was hardly fit even for this exertion; but the open air was always the one thing he cared for, and the suspense was more endurable so than when he was shut up in the house. When his cushions were raised he could see across the flower garden, over the low wall that bounded it, to the road that led from the wood and the village, up to the stables, and to the back of the house; and as his bright eyes were keen and long-sighted, he often amused himself with watching the comers and goers, noticing all that went on, as only those people do who are confined to one place. To-day, however, as he lay almost flat on his back, he could not see the road, and it was with a start of surprise that he looked up and saw his father standing by him. "I hope, as you are out of doors, that you are better, Edgar?" he said. "Oh yes, thanks, almost well," said Edgar. "Your boy, little Warren, has been getting into trouble. He has let down the young bay horse and broken his knees." "Wyn! Has he? What had he to do with the horse?" said Edgar, very much startled as he thought of what Wyn should have been doing. "He had been driving his mother and her niece to Ravenshurst as I understand, and went to fetch his sister from the station. He let down the horse in Coombe Lane. That is what I am _told_," said Mr Cunningham with emphasis, and using all the advantage his position gave him to look straight down into Edgar's face. "Was he hurt?" said Edgar, looking straight up in return. Mr Cunningham was very angry with his son, and little disposed to be merciful to him, though he had not meant to enter on the subject of the letter if Edgar had been more manifestly unequal to a discussion. "He broke his head; I believe nothing serious. He had a letter for you, which I undertook to deliver myself," and Mr Cunningham laid Alwyn's unopened packet in Edgar's hand. Edgar caught his breath, but his face never flinched as his father went on: "I was not aware, when you spoke to me the other morning, that you were already in communication with your brother." "I dare say you think it possible that I might have so deceived you," said Edgar bitterly. "But my brother made himself known to me for the first time yesterday. I should not be waiting here if I had the use of my limbs like other people. As things are, I'll beg you to open that letter and read it at once yourself." Edgar's manner and face were alike defiant, and he was so indignant at the imputation cast on him that he never saw that his father's lips were twitching and that his face was pale, nor took advantage of the moment of softening.