It was late when Mr. Lowther came home from his friend the magistrate’s. The faint flush that lighted up his face, and the unwonted lustre of his eyes, bore testimony to the merits of Mr. Corbett’s tawny port. All Sandemann’s choicest vintages would not have tempted Harcourt Lowther to sit listening to a prosy old magistrate’s civil-service experiences, in Europe; but on this side of the world a bottle of good wine and a tolerably civilised companion were not entirely to be despised. The ensign was in a very good temper when he came into the little parlour, where a swinging lamp burned brightly, and where a tobacco-jar, a meerschaum, a case-bottle of Schiedam, a tumbler, and a jug of water, were set upon the table ready for the master of the domain. Mr. Lowther was in excellent temper, and inclined to be especially civil to his valet. “No Schiedam to-night, Tredethlyn,” he said, throwing himself into the wicker easy-chair, and stretching his feet upon a smaller chair that stood opposite to him; “I’ve had a little too much of that old fellow’s port. Devilish good stuff it is too, if it hadn’t a tendency to spoil a man’s complexion, and concentrate itself in his nose. I’ll take a pipe, though. Just give me a light, will you, Tredethlyn?” He sat in a lazy attitude, with his head thrown back against the rail of the chair, and daintily arranged the stray shreds of tobacco in the bowl of his pipe with the delicate tip of his little finger; while the private lighted a long strip of folded paper and handed it to his master. “Oh, by the bye,” muttered Mr. Lowther, speaking with his mouth shut upon the amber mouthpiece of his pipe, “I’ve got some news for you, Tredethlyn. Just put your hand in my coat-pocket, and take out the paper you’ll find there. Goodness knows what it means,--a legacy of fifty pounds or so, I suppose. Anyhow, you’re a lucky devil. I should be glad enough to get even such a windfall as that; but I never hear of anything to my advantage.” Francis Tredethlyn had taken the paper from his master’s pocket by this time; it was an old copy of the “Times;” and he presented it to the ensign, but the other pushed it away impatiently. “_I_ don’t want it,” he said; “I think I read every line of it while old Corbett was snoring after dinner. Look at the third advertisement in the second column of the Supplement.” The soldier did as he was directed, and read the advertisement aloud very slowly and in a tone of unmitigated wonder. “Francis Tredethlyn, nephew of the late Oliver Tredethlyn, of Tredethlyn Grange, near Landresdale, Cornwall. If the above-mentioned will apply to Messrs. Krusdale and Scardon, solicitors, 29, Verulam Buildings, Gray’s Inn, he will hear of something to his advantage.” “The late Oliver Tredethlyn!” cried Francis, staring blankly at the paper; “my uncle’s dead, then!” “Was he alive when you left England?” asked the ensign.