Mr. Brande, who had effected his escape early, had returned home, and been in bed and asleep for some hours. He was suddenly aroused by his wife standing at his bedside, her cloak hanging off her shoulders, her coiffeur a little deranged, a lamp in her hand illuminating an unusually excited countenance. “Well, _what_ is it?” he demanded with pardonable irritation. “Oh, P.! what do you think? A man has come from Simla----” “Yes,” suddenly sitting erect, his official mind at once on the alert for some pressing and important dispatch. “He came out with them in the same ship,” she panted. Had Sarabella his wife gone suddenly out of her mind? “He says that Mark, not Waring, is the rich man.” “He said it after supper, I suppose,” snarled Mr. Brande. “He was _drunk_!” “Not a bit of it! I tackled Mark himself, and he confessed. I was very angry at being taken in. He declares they did it without meaning a bit of harm at first, and that when it went too far he did not know what to do. He is very sorry.” “That he is a millionaire! Oh yes, I should think so!” “He is coming up first thing to-morrow to tell you all about it; and, unless I’m mistaken, to speak to you about Honor.” “What about her?” sharply. “Why, you dear, stupid man, are you asleep still? Can’t you guess?” “You told me that there was nothing of that sort; in fact,” with an angry laugh, “that ‘the boy,’ as you called him, was desperately devoted to _you_.” “What stuff!” she ejaculated indignantly. “He will have thirty thousand a year! I know that I shall never close an eye to-night!” “And are good-naturedly resolved that I am to keep you in countenance. You might, I think, have reserved this double-barrelled forty-pounder for the morning.” “And that’s all the thanks I get,” she grumbled, as she slowly trailed away to her dressing-room. Just about this very time, Mark Jervis was smoking a cigarette in his bare sitting-room. Before him, on the table, lay a white feather fan and a programme. He was much too happy to go to bed, he wanted to sit up and think. His thoughts were the usual bright ones incident to love’s young dream, and as he watched the smoke slowly curling up the air was full of castles. These beautiful buildings were somewhat rudely shattered by the entrance of his bearer--wrapped in a resai, and looking extremely sleepy--with a letter in his hand. “A Pahari brought this for the sahib three hours ago,” tendering a remarkably soiled, maltreated envelope. Of course it was from his father at last. He tore it open, and this was what it said-- “MY DEAR SON, “I am very ill. If you would see me alive, come. The messenger will guide you. I live forty miles out. Lose no time. “Your affectionate father, “H. JERVIS.” The letter was forty-eight hours old. “Is the messenger here?” he asked eagerly. “Yes, sahib.”