This was all that he had gleaned about Alice since he had left home; consequently, when carelessly glancing through the _Home News_ one mail-day his eye was caught by the following, “Fairfax--On the 10th inst., at Monkswood, Lady Fairfax, of a son,” he was simply thunderstruck. He took the paper over to his own bungalow adjoining the mess and read the paragraph over and over again--it had an absolute fascination for him--but read as he would, it came to the same thing. It could not be her, it was some other Lady Fairfax; but scarcely of Monkswood also, his common sense urged. He felt a conviction that it was true, and yet he could not realise it. He a father--Alice a mother! Well, at any rate, he was glad it was a boy. There was an heir to Looton now, whatever happened to him. His father would hardly have rested in his grave if the Fairfax money and acres had gone to the Serles and the good old name become extinct. Yes, he was glad that there was no chance of that now; but as for Alice, he thought worse of her than ever. That he should know of their child’s birth through the medium of a newspaper showed the contempt in which she held him. His dark cheek reddened as he angrily flung the paper from him and began to pace the room rapidly from one end to the other. He would take no notice whatever of the event, as far as Alice was concerned. No, he certainly would _not_ write to her. This was the resolution he came to, as he proceeded hastily to dress for mess, where he was, if anything, more silent and preoccupied than usual. As he was going to bed that night he called his servant Cox into his room--a most exceptional proceeding. Cox was an old retainer, who had followed him from the Fifth, and believed implicitly that the sun rose and set entirely and exclusively in the person of his master the major. He alone was in Sir Reginald’s confidence, and naturally a silent and taciturn man; touching his master’s private affairs, he was mute as the grave. “Here, Cox, I thought I would show you this,” said Sir Reginald, holding out the paper and pointing to the announcement. Cox saluted, slowly read the paragraph, and stared blankly at his master; then recovering his manners and his presence of mind, said concisely: “I give you joy, sir.” “Thank you,” said Sir Reginald, pouring out a tumbler of champagne; “you are to drink his health and keep the news to yourself.” “Health and happiness and a long life,” said Cox, quaffing off the toast as if it was spring water and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. After staring expectantly at his master for some seconds, and finding him evidently buried in his own thoughts, he added gruffly: “I suppose I may go now, sir.” An eager nod of assent was his only answer, and he lost no time in backing himself out into the verandah, and hurrying off to his barrack-room in time to report himself before the bugles sounded the last post.